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SELFXTIONS 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


NEW   YORK: 

S.  WORTHINGTON,    770  BROADWAY. 

1881 


DEDICATED    TO 


$^ixti   ^tmtpjrtt 


IN    POETRY — ILLUSTRIOUS    AND    CONSUMMATE 


IN    FRIENDSHIP — NOBLE    AND    SINCERE 


MlG34:7£ 


In  the  present  selection  from  my  poetry,  there  is  an  attempt 
to  escape  from  the  embarrassment  of  appearing  to  pronowict 
upon  what  myself  may  cotisider  the  best  of  it.  I  adopt 
another  principle  ;  and  by  simply  stringing  together  certain 
pieces  on  the  thread  of  an  imaginary  personality,  1  present 
them  in  succession,  rather  as  the  natural  development  of  a 
particular  experience  than  because  I  account  them  the  most 
noteworthy  portion  of  my  work.  Such  an  attempt  was 
made  in  the  volume  of  selections  from  the  poetry  of  Elizabeth 
Barrett-Browning  :  to  which — in  outward  uniformity,  at 
least — my  own  would  venture  to  become  a  companion. 

A  few  years  ago,  had  such  an  opportunity  presented 
itself,  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  say  a  word  in  reply  to 
the  objections  my  poetry  was  used  to  encounter.  Time  has 
kindly  co-operated  with  my  disinclination  to  write  the  poetry 
and  the  criticism  besides.  The  readers  I  am  at  last  privi- 
leged to  expect,  meet  me  fully  half-way ;  and  if  from  the 
fitting  stand-point,  they  must  still  "censure  me  in  their 
wisdom,"  they  have  previously  "awakened  their  senses  that 
they  may  the  better  judge"  Nor  do  I  apprehend  any  more 
charges  of  being  wilfully  obscure,  unconscientious^  careless, 
or  perversely  harsh.  Having  hitherto  done  my  utmost  in 
the  art  to  which  my  life  is  a  devotion,  I  cannot  engage  to 
increase  the  effort ;  but  I  conceive  that  there  may  be  helpful 
light,  as  well  as  reassuring  warmth,  in  the  attention  and 
sympathy  I  gratefully  acknowledge. 

R.  B. 

London,  May  14,  1872. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

My  Star ir 

A  Face " 

yC^Mv  Last  Duchess (}f) 

Song  from  "  Pippa  Passes  " H 

Cristina r5 

Count  Gismond *7 

Eurydice  to  Orpheus 23 

The  Glove 23 

Song 29 

A  Serenade  at  the  Villa 3° 

Youth  and  Art 33 

The  Flight  of  the  Duchess 36 

Song  from  "Pippa  Passes" 65 

"  How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to 

Aix  " 6S 

Song  from  "  Paracelsus  "  68 

Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-ed-Kader 69 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 7° 

The  Lost  Leader 72 

In  a  Gondola „ 73 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel 8l 

Earth's  Immortalities 87 

The  Last  Ride  Together 8S 

Mesmerism , 92 

By  the  Fireside 97 


CONTENTS. 


A 


PAGE 

Any  Wife  to  any  Husband 108 

In  a  Year 114 

Song  from  "James  Lee" 117 

A  Woman's  Last  Word 117 

"****?> Ieeting  at  Night 119 

*»«$*arting  at  Morning 120 

Women  and  Roses 120 

Misconceptions 122 

A  Pretty  Woman 123 

A  Light  Woman 126 

Love  in  a  Life 129 

Life  in  a  Love 129 

—■SThe  Laboratory j   150 

Gold  Hair 133 

The  Statue  and  the  Bust  .  .«?£. .  M.S*//di.Q*&!?£i\  139 

fn-jfVW17   AMONG   THE  RUINS I4S 

Time's  Revenges 151 

Waring 154 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 1 62 

The  Italian  in  England '. . . .  163 

The  Englishman  in  Italy 168 

Up  at  a  Villa— Down  in  the  City 177 

--HPictor  Ignotus "FSi 

r-^FRA  Lippo  Lippi >  I$4 

ndrea  Del  Sarto T96 

he  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's  Church  204 

A  Toccata  of  Galufpi's  ...    208 

How  it  Strikes  a  Contemporary 212 

Protus 215 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha 217 

Abt  Vogler 223 

Two  in  the  Campagna 229 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 

—9** De  Gustibus — " 232 

The  Guardian-Angel 233 

Evelyn  Hope 236 

*»    Memorabilia 238 

Apparent  Failure 239 

Prcspice 241 

'.'  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came  " 242 

Mfa  A  Grammarian's  Funeral <25* '\ 

Cleon 255 

Instans  Tyrannus 266 

An  Epistle 269 

Caliban  upon  Setebos 279 

Saul 288 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 309 

^JiPILOGUE 316 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


MY   STAR. 


All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue  ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dailies  the  red  and  the  blue  ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird  ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled  : 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above 
it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  tome  ;  therefore  I  love  it. 


A   FACE. 


If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers ! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 


12  MY  LAST  DUCHESS. 

Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 

In  the  pure  profile  ;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 

For  that  spoils  all  :  but  rather  as  if  aloft 

Yon  hyacinth.,  she  lov-es  so.  leaned  its  staff's 

Burthen  of  heney-colored  buds,  to  kiss 

And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 

Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround, 

How  it  should  waver,  on  the  pale  gold  ground, 

Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts  ! 

I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 

Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 

Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb  : 

But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 

Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 

Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 

(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this  sweet  face  by), 

All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 

Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 


MY   LAST   DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now  :  Fra  Pandolfs  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?     I  said 
"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design  :  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS.  13 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there  ;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat : "  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed  ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one  !     My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked    men, — good  !   but 

thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who  'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Evren  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me  ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  " — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping  ;  and  I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 


i4  SONG   FROM   "  P1PPA    PASSES." 

Whene'er  I  passed  her  ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?   This  grew  ;  I  gave  commands 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise  ?     We  '11  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed  ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  ! 


SONG   FROM    "PIPPA    PASSES." 


Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me  ! 

When  — w  here — 
How — can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me  ? 

("  Hist !  "  — said  Kate  the  queen  ; 
But  "Oh,"  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes  !  ") 

ii. 

Is  she  wronged  ? — To  the  rescue  of  her  honor, 

My  heart  ! 
Is  she  poor? — What  costs  it  to  become  a  donor  ? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 


CR  IS  TINA.  15 

But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  her ! 

("Nay,  list!  " — bade  Kate  the  queen  ; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses  !  "  ) 


CRISTINA. 

1. 
She  should  never  have  looked  at  me  if  she  meant  I 

should  not  love  her  ! 
There  are  plenty  .  .  men,  you  call  such,  I  suppose  .  . 

she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases,  and  yet  leave  much  as 

she  found  them  : 
But  I  'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it  when  she  fixed  me, 

glancing  round  them. 

11. 
What  ?     To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing  ?     But  I  can't 

tell  (there  's  my  weakness) 
What  her  look  said  ! — no  vile  cant,  sure,  about  "  need 

to  strew  the  bleakness 
Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed,  that  the  sea 

feels  " — no  "  strange  yearning 
That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish  where  there  's 

chance  of  least  returning." 

in. 
Oh  we  're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows !  but   not 

quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure  tho'   seldom,  are  denied  us,  when  the  spirit's 

true  endowments 


1 6  CRISTINA. 

Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones,  and  apprise  it 

if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way,  to  its  triumph 

or  undoing. 

IV. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights,  there  are 

fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby   piled-up  honors  perish,  whereby  swollen 

ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse,  which  for  once 

had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  life-time  that  away  the  rest 

have  trifled. 

v. 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment,  as  she  fixed  me, 

she  felt  clearly, 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed,  here  an  age  't  is  resting 

merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages  :  while  the  true  end, 

sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love  way,  with  some  other 

soul  to  mingle  ? 

VI. 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for,  and  eternally  must  lose 

it; 
Better  ends   may  be   in  prospect,  deeper  blisses  (if 

you  choose  it), 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss  have  been  lost 

here.     Doubt  you  whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me,  mine  and  her  souls 

rushed  together  ? 


COUNT   GISMOND.  17 

VII. 

Oh,  observe  !     Of  course,  next  moment,  the  world's 

honors,  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the   light   for   ever.     Never  fear  but 

there  's  provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge,  lest  we  walk  the 

earth  in  rapture  ! 
— Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret,  just  so  much 

more  prize  their  capture  ! 

VIII. 

Such  am  I  :  the  secret 's  mine   now  !     She  has  lost 

me,  I  have  gained  her  ; 
Her  soul  's  mine  :  and  thus,  grown   perfect,  I   shall 

pass  my  life's  remainder. 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving  both  our  powers, 

alone  and  blended  : 
And   then,  come  next    life   quickly  !      This   world's 

use  will  have  been  ended. 


COUNT  GISMOND 

AIX    IN    PROVENCE. 
I. 

Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me ! 

Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 
Chose  time  and  place  and  company 

To  suit  it  ;  when  he  struck  at  length 

My  honor,  't  was  with  all  his  strength. 


1 8  COUNT   GISMOND. 

II. 

And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

in. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 

To  please  themselves ;  't  was  all  their  deed. 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face  ; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 

IV. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous  !     Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast  ; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 
As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head  ! 

v. 

But  no  :  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 
My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs — 


COUNT  GISMOND.  19 

VI. 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 

And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun,. 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun) — 

VII. 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 

And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 
Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  queen's  day — Oh  I  think  the  cause 
Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 
Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud  ! 

VIII. 

However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down,  'twas  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but   .    .    .    there,  't  will  last 
No  long  time    .    .    .    the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain  ! 

IX. 

See !  Gismond  's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys  :    I  can  proceed. 
Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 

Forth  boldly — to  my  face,  indeed— 
But  Gauthier  ?  and  he  thundered  "  Stay  !  " 
And  all  stayed.     "  Bring  no  crowns,  I  say  ! 


20  COUNT   G ISM 0X1). 

X. 

"  Bring  torches  !     Wind  the  penance-sheet 
"  About  her  !     Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 

"  Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet ! 
"  Shall  she,  whose  body  I  embraced 

"  A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day  ? 

"  For  honor's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say  !" 

XL 

I  ?    What  I  answered  ?     As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it  ?     No  more  says  the  soul. 

XII. 

Till  out  strode  Gismond  ;  then  I  knew 
That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 

His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 

Himself  to  Satan :  who  would  spend 

A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end  ? 


XIII. 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  mouth 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 
In  blood  men's  verdict  then.     North,  Soul 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead, 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 


COUNT   GISMOND.  : 

XIV. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  o'  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event  : 

God  took  that  on  him — I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part :  I  did. 

xv. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 
His  armorer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 

The  while !     His  foot  ...    my  memory  leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

XVI.       ' 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground  : 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

O'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

XVII. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said,  "  Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death  ! 

Say,  hast  thou  lied  ? "     And,  "  I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 


I  COUNT   GISMOND. 

XVIII. 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 

— What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  for  ever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest  ^ 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

XIX. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world ;  and  scarce  I  felt 

His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 
A  little  shifted  in  its  belt : 

For  he  began  to  say  the  while 

How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

xx. 

So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 

Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 
Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 

I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 

God  lighten  !     May  his  soul  find  grace  ! 

XXI. 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow  ;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 
Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it     .     .     .     Gismond  here 

And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back  ? 
I  was  just  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


THE    GLOVE.  23 


EURYDICE   TO   ORPHEUS. 

A    PICTURE    BY    FREDERICK    LEIGHTON,    R.A. 

But  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the  brow ! 
Let  them  once  more  absorb  me  !     One  look  now 

Will  lap  me  round  forever,  not  to  pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie  beyond  : 
Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the  bond 

Of  one  immortal  look  !     All  woe  that  was, 
Forgotten,  and  all  terror  that  may  be, 
Defied, — no  past  is  mine,  no  future  :  look  at  me  ! 


THE   GLOVE. 

(peter  ronsard  loquitur.') 

"  Heigho,"  yawned  one  day  King  Francis, 

"  Distance  all  value  enhances  ! 

When  a  man  's  busy,  why,  leisure 

Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure  : 

'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he  ? 

Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 

Here  we  've  got  peace  ;  and  aghast  I  'm 

Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime. 

Is  there  a  reason  in  metre  ? 

Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter  !  " 

I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 

Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 

"  Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets  : 


24  THE   CLOVE. 

Men  are  the  merest  Ixions  " — 

Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "  Let  's 

.     .     .     Heigho     ...     go  look  at  our  lions  !  " 

Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 

If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  courtyard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold  ; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  Sir  de  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most — 

Oh,  what  a  face  !     One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside  ; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow, 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework, 

And  fled  :  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled  ; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  firework's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter  ; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute  !     Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature  's  but  narrow, 


THE    GLOVE.  25 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 

Ilhun  Juda  Leonem  de  Tribu. 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they  rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead  : 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant, 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder, 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered  ? 

Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead  ! 

And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead, 

By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and  steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 

Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 

Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress  : 

So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

"  How  he  stands  !  "  quoth  the   King  :  "  we  may  well 

swear, 
(No  novice,  we  've  won  our  spurs  elsewhere 
And  so  can  afford  the  confession,) 
We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 
In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold  ; 
Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold, 
Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 


26  THE   GLOVE. 

The  visitor's  brisket  or  surloin  : 

But  who  's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy 

Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie  !  " 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested  : 
The  dame  't  was  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past  ;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 


Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight 's  a  tarrier  ! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove, — while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir, — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated, 
Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated, 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove. 

"  Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her  ? 
So    should    I!"  —  cried    the    King — "  't   was    mere 

vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity  !  " 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Not  so,  I  ;  for  I  caught  an  expression 
In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 
Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment, — 


THE    GLOVE.  27 

As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 

She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 

So  long  as  the  process  was  needful, — 

As  if  she  had  tried,  in  a  crucible, 

To  what  "  speeches  like  gold  "  were  reducible, 

And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 

Felt  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper  ; 

To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 

Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and  dust  too. 

She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter  ; 

Clement  Marot  stayed  ;  I  followed  after, 

And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant  ? 

If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recallment  ? 

"  For  I  " — so  I  spoke — "  am  a  poet  : 

Human  nature, — behooves  that  I  know  it !  " 

She  told  me,  "  Too  long  had  I  heard 

Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word  : 

For  my  love — what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare  ! 

With  my  scorn — what  De  Lorge  could  compare  ! 

And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 

He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 

I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 

Doubt  his  word — and  moreover,  perforce, 

For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 

Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 

When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 

All  the  dangers  at  ©nee  to  my  thought, 

Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 

Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den, — 

From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 

Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands, 

With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud, 

By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed, 


28  THE    GLOVE. 

Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 

That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  the  gift, 

— To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 

Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 

Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped, 

Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped. 

So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 

One  trial  what  '  death  for  my  sake  ' 

Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine, 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define 

Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 

Who  took  it  to  mean  just  '  to  die.' 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak  : 

Does  the  mark  yet  discolor  my  cheek  ? 

But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 

Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know  ? " 


I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 

No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more  weigh 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian  ; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervor 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

— He'd  have   scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst 

turn 
If    you   whispered    "  Friend,  what    you  'd    get,    first 

earn  !  " 
And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 
Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 
To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 
The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 


SONG. 


2r> 


For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy  ; 

And,  in  short,  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  woed  and  won     .     .     .     how  do  you  call  her  ? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well. 

And  't  was  noticed  he  never  would  honor 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 

While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in, — • 

But  of  course  this  adventnre  came  pat  in, 

And  never  the  king  told  the  story, 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory, 

But  the  wife  smiled — "  His  nerves  are  grown  firmer  : 

Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur," 

Venienti  occurrite  morbo  ! 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo. 


SONG 


Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress  ? 

Holds  earth  aught — speak  truth— above  her? 
Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress. 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 

So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall  ? 


3° 


A    SERENADE  AT  THE    VILLA. 

II. 

Because,  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising  ; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over  ; 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught — speak  truth — above  her  ? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much  ! 


A  SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA. 


That  was  I,  you  heard  last  night, 
When  there  rose  no  moon  at  all, 

Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 
Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small : 

Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 


Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 

Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm. 

When  the  crickets  stopped  their  cry, 
When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 

You  heard  music  ;  that  was  I. 

in. 

Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof  : 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again, 

Lightning  \ — where  it  broke  the  roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 


A    SERENADE  IN  THE    VILLA. 
IV. 

What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 

O  my  love,  my  all,  my  one ! 
Singing  helped  the  verses  best, 

And  when  singing's  best  was  done, 
To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest. 

v. 
So  wore  night ;  the  East  was  gray, 

White  the  broad-faced  hemlock-flowers 
There  would  be  another  day  ; 

Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 
Found  me,  I  had  passed  away. 

VI. 

What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 
Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well  ? 

Say,  this  struck  you — "When  life  gropes 
Feebly  from  the  path  where  fell 

Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes, 

VII. 

"  One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be, 
To  secure  my  step  from  wrong  ; 

One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 
Patient  through  the  watches  long, 

Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 

VIII. 

Never  say — as  something  bodes — 
"  So,  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse  ! 

When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads, 
Better  the  task-master's  curse 

Than  such  music  on  the  roads  ! 


A    SERENADE   AV  THE    VILLA. 

IX. 

"  When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 
Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent, 

Any  star,  the  smallest  one, 

While  some  drops,  where  lightning  rent, 

Show  the  final  storm  begun — 


"  When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot, 
When  the  garden-voices  fail 

In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot, — 
Shall  another  voice  avail, 

That  shape  be  where  these  are  not  ? 

XI. 

"  Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease, 
Proffering  its  help  uncouth  ? 

Can't  one  even  die  in  peace  ? 

As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  )routh, 

Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees  ? " 

XII. 

Oh  how  dark  your  villa  was, 
Windows  fast  and  obdurate  ! 

How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 
Where  I  stood— the  iron  gate 

Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass ! 


YOUTH  AND  ART.  33 


YOUTH    AND   ART. 


It  once  might  have  been,  once  only  : 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 

You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 


Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted  and  polished, 

Then  laughed  "They  will  see,  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

in. 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled  and  twittered, 
"  Kate  Brown  's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered  !  " 

IV. 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  ; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 

v. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

3 


34  YOUTH  AND  ART 

VI. 
You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 

Cap  and  blouse — nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too  ; 
Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 

With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

VII. 

And  I — soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

VIII. 

No  harm  !     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up  : 

IX. 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 


Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it  ? 

XL 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 
(And  yet  the  memory  rankles) 

When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 


YOUTH  AND  ART.  35 

XII. 
But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 

"  That  foreign  fellow, — who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ? " 

XIII. 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes  ? " 

xiv. 
No,  no :  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over  : 
You  Ve  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 

And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

xv. 
But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 

I  'm  queen  myself  at  bals-pare\ 
I  Ve  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you  're  dubbed  knight  and  an  R.  A. 

xvi. 

Each  life  's  unfulfilled,  you  see  ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy  : 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired, — been  happy. 

XVII. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever: 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  for  ever. 


36  THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS. 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    DUCHESS. 


You  're  my  friend  : 

I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to ; 

I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his  yoke,  too ; 

So,  here  's  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end, 

My  friend ! 

ii. 

Ours  is  a  great  wild  country: 

If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 

I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop ; 

For  when  you  've  passed  the  corn-field  country, 

Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are  packed, 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 

And  cattle-track  to  open-chase, 

And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 

O'  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral  pace, 

Round  about,  solemn  and  slow, 

One  by  one,  row  after  row, 

Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 

So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 

Down  the  other  side  again 

To  another  greater,  wilder  country, 

That 's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up  plain, 

Branched  through  and  through  with  many  a  vein 

Whence  iron  's  dug,  and  copper 's  dealt ; 

Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight  before,— 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt, 

Copper-ore  and  iron-ore, 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS.  37 

And  forge  and  furnace  mould  and  melt, 

And  so  on,  more  and  ever  more, 

Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 

Comes  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great  sea-shore, 

— And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  country. 

in. 

I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke  was — 

(And  O,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old !) 

In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke  was — 

(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not  old !) 

I  in  the  kennel,  he  in  the  bower : 

We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 

My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day ; 

Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say 

That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to  bay, 

Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five, 

With  his  huntspear  he  'd  contrive 

To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed, 

And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt? 

And  that  's  why  the  old  Duke  would  rather 

He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father, 

And  loved  to  have  "him  ever  in  call ; 

That 's  why  my  father  stood  in  the  hall 

When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  infant  out 

To  show  the  people,  and  while  they  passed 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 

Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 

As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 

Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  born. 

"And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier,  " since 

The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 

Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side :" 

The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed  to  wince, 


38  THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world  wide, 

Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  march, 

The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch  ; 

And  up  he  looked,  and  awhile  he  eyed 

The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and  banners 

Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners, 

And  "ay,"  said  the  Duke  with  a  surly  pride. 

The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he  died 

At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit, 

With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 

In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot 

Petticoated  like  a  herald, 

In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room, 

Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page  and  groom, 

What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  perfume : 

— They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 

Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage ! 

They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh  tannage 

Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry  sunshine ! 

Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough-foot  merlin  ! 

(Hark,  the  wind's  on  the  heath  at  its  game! 

Oh  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  banner, 

And  turn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like  flame !) 

Had  they  broached  a  cask  of  white  beer  from  Berlin 

— Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere  wine 

Put  to  his  lips  when  they  saw  him  pine, 

A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 

Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May  sorrel 

And  ropy  with  sweet, — we  shall  not  quarrel. 

IV. 

So,  at  home,  the  sick  tall  yellow  Duchess 
Was  left  with  the  infant  in  her  clutches, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS.  39 

She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows  who  : 

And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her  tribe. 

Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two, 

And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 

At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished  fire, 

As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 

Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  desire, 

And  back  came  the  Duke  and  his  mother  again. 


And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little  ape 

That  ever  affronted  human  shape  ; 

Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself. 

You  'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old  ways  ? 

—Not  he  !     For  in  Paris  they  told  the  elf 

That  our  rough  North  land  was  the  land  of  Lays, 

The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days  ; 

Since  the  Mid-Age  was  the  Heroic  Time, 

And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 

Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its  prime, 

And  see  true  castles  with  proper  towers, 

Young-hearted  women,  old-minded  men, 

And  manners  now  as  manners  were  then. 

So,  all  that  the  old  Dukes  had  been,  without  knowing 

it, 
This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was,  without  being  it ; 
'T  was  not  for  the  joy's  self,  but  the  joy  of  his  showing 

it, 
Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride  of  our  seeing  it, 
He  revived  all  usages  thoroughly  worn-out, 
The   souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the  hearts  of  them 

torn-out : 
And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he  perilled, 
On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length, 


4o  THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE    DC  CHESS. 

With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no  strength  ; 
— They  should  have  set  him  on  Red  Berold 
With  the  red  eye  slow  consuming  in  fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey  spire  ! 

VI. 

Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry,  we  heard  : 

And  out  of  a  convent,  at  the  word, 

Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 

— Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they  cling  ! 

That  day,  I  know,  with  a  dozen  oaths 

I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 

Fit  for  the  chase  of  urox  or  buffi e 

In  winter-time  when  you  need  to  muffle. 

But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should  cut  a  figure, 

And  so  we  saw  the  lady  arrive  : 

My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger  ! 

She  was  the  smallest  lady  alive, 

Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness, 

Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and  gladness 

That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 

Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high  trees 

Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees  : 

In  truth,  she  was  not  hard  to  please  ! 

Up  she  looked,  down  she  looked,  round  at  the  mead, 

Straight  at  the  castle,  that 's  best  indeed 

To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls  : 

As  for  us,  styled  the  "  serfs  and  thralls," 

She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had  said  it, 

(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand  ?) 

Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I  led  it ; 

And  Max,  who  rode  on  her  other  hand, 

Said,  no  bird  flew  past  but  she  inquired 

What  its  true  name  was,  nor  ever  seemed  tired — 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  41 

If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover, 

And  the  green  and  gray  bird   on  the   field  was  the 

plover. 
When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke  : 
And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small  foot  pointed 
On  to  my  hand, — as  with  a  rebuke, 
And  as  if  his  backbone  were  not  jointed, 
The  Duke  stepped  rather  aside  than  forward, 
And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest  smile  ; 
And,  mind  you,  his  mother  all  the  while 
Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to  Nor' ward  ; 
And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its  pullies 
Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcullis  ; 
And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind  sullies, 
The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play, 
As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray  ; 
For  such  things  must  begin  some  one  day. 

VII.       , 

In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again  ; 

As  who  should  say,  "  You  labor  in  vain  ! 

This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 

And  glad  in  his  sight ;  therefore,  glad  I  will  be." 

So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

VIII. 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire — 

Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire — 

To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life  ! 

(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 

— For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife, 

(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 

Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one  ! 


42  THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS. 

And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 

And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or  small, 

She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 

There  was  already  this  man  in  his  post, 

This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his  office, 

And  the  Duke's  plan  admitted  a  wife,  at  most, 

To  meet  his  eye,  with  the  other  trophies, 

Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it, 

To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be  seen, 

At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper  minute, 

And  die  away  the  life  between. 

And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  infraction 

Of  rule— (but  for  after-sadness  that  came) 

To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfaction 

With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the  old  dame 

Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 

And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the  wise, 

And,  child-like,  parcel  out  praise  or  blame  : 

They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise, 

As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriving 

A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were  living, 

Should  find  with  delight  it   could   motion   to  strike 

him  ! 
So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother  like  him  : 
The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff — 
That  had  not  been  contemptuous  enough, 
With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded  applause, 
And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's  claws. 

IX. 

So,  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin, 

Paling  and  ever  paling, 
As  the  way  is  with  a  hid  chagrin  ; 

And  the  Duke  perceived  that  she  was  ailing, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  43 

And  said  in  his  heart,  "  'T  is  done  to  spite  me, 
But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to  right  me  ! " 
Don't  swear,  friend  !     The  old  one,  many  a  year, 
Is  in  hell,  and  the  Duke's  self  .  .  .  you  shall  hear. 

x. 

Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter-warning, 
When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his  foot,  of  a  morn- 
ing, 
A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  tender  ice, 
That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in  a  trice, 
Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold, 
And  another  and  another,  and  faster  and  faster, 
Till,  dimpling  to  blindness,  the  wide  water  rolled — 
Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our  master 
Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleasures  in  season, 
And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade  him  be  hearty, 
He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  treason 
In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party. 
Always  provided,  old  books  showed  the  way  of  it ! 
What  meant  old  poets  by  their  strictures  ? 
And  when  old  poets  had  said  their  say  of  it, 
How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pictures  ? 
We  must  revert  to  the  proper  channels, 
Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on  panels, 
And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic  traditions  : 
Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambitions, 
As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated — 
To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  properest  chirrup, 
Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  on  mounting  your  stir- 
rup— 
We  of  the  household  took  thought  and  debated. 
Blessed  was  he  whose  back  ached  with  the  jerkin 
His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest-work  in ; 


44  THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS. 

Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "  ohs" 
And  "ahs"  while  he  tugged  on  his  grandsire's  trunk- 
hose  ; 
What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no  rims  on, 
Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like  the  scallop, 
And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 
Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with  crimson  ? 
So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short  rhyme  on  't, 
What  with  our  Venerers,  Prickers  and  Verderers, 
Might  hope  for  real  hunters  at  length  and  not  mur- 
derers, 
And  oh  the  Duke's  tailor,  he  had  a  hot  time  on  't ! 

XI. 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  first  dizziness 
Of  flap-hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack-boots  subsided, 
The  Duke  put  this  question,  "  The  Duke's  part  pro- 
vided, 
Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in  the  business  ? " 
For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three  witnesses 
Did  he  establish  all  fitor-unfitnesses  : 
And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  together, 
Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 
By  the  announcement  with  proper  unction 
That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's  function  ; 
Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 
"When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the  deer  is  at  siege, 
Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth  on  her  jennet, 
And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of  her  liege 
In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  toweling, 
Let  her  preside  at  the  disemboweling." 
Now,  my  friend,  if  you  had  so  little  religion 
As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon-lanner, 
And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a  banner 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS.  45 

Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon  ; 

And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 

You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her  eyes, 

And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her  beak, 

Would  it  cause  you  any  great  surprise 

If,  when  you  decided  to  give  her  an  airing, 

You  found  she  needed  a  little  preparing? 

— I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  curmudgeon, 

If  she  clung  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it  in  dudgeon  ? 

Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signified, 

Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most  dignified, 

In  what  a  pleasure  she  was  to  participate, — 

And,  instead  of  leaping  wide  in  flashes, 

Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long  lashes, 

As  if  pressed  by  fatigue  even  he  could  not  dissipate, 

And  duly  acknowledged  the  Duke's  forethought, 

But   spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health  were  worth 

aught, 
Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch  by  night, 
And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be  right, 
So,  thanking  him,  declined  thp  hunting,— 
Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting  ? 
With  all  the  ceremony  settled — 
With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 
Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer, 
And  the  jennet  pitched  up^on,  a  pieballed, 
Black-barred,  cream-coated  and  pink  eye-balled, — 
No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled ! 
And  when  she  persisted  nevertheless, — 
Well,  I  suppose  here  's  the  time  to  confess 
That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's  chamber 
A  balcony  none  of  the  hardest  to  clamber  ; 
And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman,  ready  in  waiting, 
Stayed  in  call  outside,  what  need  of  relating  ? 


46  THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June  rose,  why,  a  fer- 
vent 
Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was  your  servant ; 
And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep  through  the  case- 
ment, 
How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  distance? 
And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  persistence, 
The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with  amazement, 
Stood  for  a  while  in  a  sultry  smother, 
And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook  of  the  awful, 
Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 
To  learn  what  was  decorous  and  lawful ; 
And    the     mother   smelt    blood   with    a   cat-like    in- 
stinct, 
As    her  cheek  quick    whitened   thro'  all  its  quince- 

tinct. 
Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole  truth  at  once  ! 
What   meant    she  ?— Who  was    she? — Her    duty  and 

station. 
The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth,  at  once, 
Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  relation — 
In  brief,  my  friend,  set  all  the  devils  in  hell  free 
And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a  belfry 
And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part  canon, 
And  then  you  may  guess  how  that  tongue  of  hers 

ran  on  ! 
Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at  last, 
And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she  passed  ; 
And  after  her, — making  (he  hoped)  a  face 
Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Saladin, 
Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  austere  grace 
Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin, 
From  door  to  staircase — oh  such  a  solemn 
Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column  ! 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  47 

XII. 

However,  at  sunrise  our  company  mustered  ; 
And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding  unkennel, 
And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  pricker  blustered, 
With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet  fennel ; 
For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled  with  fog 
You  might  cut  as  an  axe  chops  a  log — 
Like  so  much  wool  for  color  and  bulkiness  ; 
And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect  sulkiness, 
Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels  but  queasily, 
And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 
Begins  the  day  with  indifferent  omen. 
And  lo,  as  he  looked  around  uneasily, 
The  sun  ploughed  the  fog  up  and  drove  it  asunder, 
This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley  under  ; 
And,  looking  through  the  court-yard  arch, 
Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet  him 
But  a  troop  of  Gypsies  on  their  march  ? 
No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to  greet  him. 

XIII. 

Now,  in  your  land,  Gypsies  reach  you,  only 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside  ; 

North  they  go,  South  they  go,  trooping  or  lonely, 

And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide, 

Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here,  a  trace  there, 

That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here,  a  place  there. 

But  with  us,  I  believe  they  rise  out  of  the  ground, 

And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 

With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  embrowned  ; 

Born,  no  doubt,  like  insects  which  breed  on 

The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed  on. 

For  the  earth— not  a  use  to  which  they  don't  turn  it, 


48  THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DC  CHESS. 

The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's  womb, 
Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honeycomb, 
They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and  burn  it — 
Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance,  a  snaffle 
With  side-bars  never  a  brute  can  baffle  ; 
Or  a  lock  that 's  a  puzzle  of  wards  within  wards  ; 
Or,  if  your  colt's  fore  foot  inclines  to  curve  inwards, 
Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn  on  a  swivel 
And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel. 
Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell  of  the  winkle 
That  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram  with  their  tinkle  ; 
But  the  sand — they  pinch  and  pound  it  like  otters  ; 
Commend  me  to  Gypsy  glass-makers  and  potters  ! 
Glasses  they  '11  blow  you,  crystal-clear, 
Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall  appear, 
As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and  let  die 
A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry  ; 
And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning  pride, 
With  long  white  threads  distinct  inside, 
Like  the  lake-flower's  fibrous  roots  which  dangle 
Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle, 
Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the  clear  waters, 
And  the  cup-lily  couches  with  all  the  white  daugh- 
ters : 
Such  are  the  works  they  put  their  hand  to, 
The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and  sand  to. 
And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our  Duke  saw  sally 
Toward  his  castle  from  out  of  the  valley, 
Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched  spiders, 
Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet  our  riders. 
And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached  the  ditch, 
Whereat  all  stopped  save  one,  a  witch 
That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the  group, 
By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS.  49 

I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  importune 
To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  fortune. 
The  oldest  Gypsy  then  above  ground  ; 
And,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came  round, 
She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pastime, 
And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the  last  time. 
And  presently  she  was  seen  to  sidle 
Up  to  the  Duke  till  she  touched  his  bridle, 
So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared  up 
As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered  up 
With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye-holes, 
Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 
And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 
Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  their  viols 
When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 
Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding  : 
And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the  humming 
Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 
— A  dog- whistle  blowing  the  fiercest  of  trebles, 
(Just  a  sea-shore  stone  holding  a  dozen  fine  pebbles,) 
Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw  on  a  pipe-end, — 
And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  stipend. 
But  this  time,  the  Duke  would  scarcely  vouchsafe 
A  word  in  reply  ;  and  in  vain  she  felt 
With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 
For  the  purse  of  sleek  pine-marten  pelt, 
Ready  to  put  what  he  gave  in  her  pouch  safe, — 
Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehension, 
Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 
She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her  duty 
To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful  beauty. 
No  sooner  had  she  named  his  lady, 
Than  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady, 
And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel  meaning — 
4 


5o  THE   FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  wanted  weaning  ; 

If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life  was  and  sorrow, 

She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser  to-morrow  ; 

And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  trouble 

As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh  double  ? 

So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture, 

(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hirsute 

That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  natural  fur-suit) 

He  was  contrasting,  't  was  plain  from  his  gesture, 

The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and  delicate 

With  the  loathsome  squalor  of  this  helicat. 

I,  in  brief,  was  the  man  the  Duke  beckoned 

From  out  of  the  throng,  and  while  I  drew  near 

He  told  the  crone — as  I  since  have  reckoned 

By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into  her  ear 

With  circumspection  and  mystery— 

The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 

Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude  ; 

And  for  all  the  crone's  submissive  attitude 

I  could  see  round  her  mouth  the  loose  plaits  tightening, 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelligence  brightening, 

As  though  she  engaged  with  hearty  goodwill 

Whatever  he  now  might  enjoin  to  fulfil, 

And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough  frightening. 

And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 

Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  imps 

The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch  the  hernshaw. 

He  bade  me  take  the  Gypsy  mother 

And  set  her  telling  some  story  or  other 

Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 

To  wile  away  a  weary  hour 

For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower, 

Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exertion 

And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diversion. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  51 

XIV. 

Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the  mere  curveter, 

Out  rode  the  Duke,  and  after  his  hollo 

Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman  and  servitor, 

And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone  follow. 

And  what  makes  me  confident  what's  to  be  told  you 

Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's  devising, 

Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharply,  behold  you, 

There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surprising  : 

For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head  in  stature, 

And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor  faltered, 

As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature, 

And  the  ignoble  mien  was  wholly  altered, 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another  nature, 

And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever    the    change 

meant, 
Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrangement  : 
For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like  sedges, 
Gold  coins  were  glittering  on  the  edges, 
Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans 
Which  proves  the  veil  a  Persian  woman's  : 
And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's  horns  newly 
Come  out  as  after  the  rain  he  paces, 
Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 
Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their  places. 
So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the  entry 
Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sentry  ; 
I  told  the  command  and  produced  my  companion, 
And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any  one, 
For  since  last  night,  by  the  same  token, 
Not  a  single  word  had  the  lady  spoken  : 
They  went  in  both  to  the  presence  together, 
While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the  weather. 


5 2  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

XV. 

And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very  first  of  all, 

I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn  it  : 

Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to  fall 

On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it 

If  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so  soundly 

Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  continue 

The  whole  time,  sleeping  as  profoundly 

As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would  pin  you 

'Twixt  the  eyes  where  life  holds  garrison, 

— Jacynth  forgive  me  the  comparison, 

But  where  I  begin  my  own  narration 

Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 

To  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  balcony, 

And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon  eye, 

To  follow  the  hunt  thro'  the  open  country, 

From  where  the  bushes  thinlier  crested 

The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where  's  not  one  tree. 

When,  in  a  moment,  my  ear  was  arrested 

By — was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying, 

Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  playing 

In  the  chamber  ? — and  to  be  certain 

I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  curtain, 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 

Yet  as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 

In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 

With  her  head  against  the  door  ; 

While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of  state, 

Was  a  queen — the  Gypsy  woman  late, 

With  head  and  face  downbent 

On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent  : 

For,  coiled  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at  ease, 

The  ladv  sat  between  her  knees, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  53 

And  o'er  them  the  lady's  clasped  hands  met, 

And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set, 

And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face  of  the  crone 

Wherein  the  eyes  had  grown  and  grown 

As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple 

At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 

— Very  like,  by  her  hands'  slow  fanning, 

As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow's  flappers 

They  moved  to  measure,  or  bell  clappers. 

I  said,  "  Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 

Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque  you — 

Those  hands  and  fingers  with  no  flesh  on  ? " 

But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to  the  rescue, 

At  once  I  was  stoppecf  by  the  lady's  expression  : 

For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking 

From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  unwinking, 

— Life's  pure  fire,  received  without  shrinking, 

Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heaving 

Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were  leaving, 

— Life,  that  filling  her,  passed  redundant 

Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abundant, 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the  white  throat 

curving  ; 
And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the  pleasure, 
Moving  to  the  mystic  measure, 
Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 
I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  confounded, 
As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes  glistened, 
As  she  listened  and  she  listened  : 
When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained  me, 
The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me, 
And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous  chime, 
Making  out  words  and  prose  and  rhyme, 


54 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 
Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and  dropped 
From  under  the  words  it  first  had  propped, 
And  left  them  midway  in  the  world, 
Word  took  word  as  hand  takes  hand, 
I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand, 
And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 
The  Gypsy  said  : — 

"  And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe. 
And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst, 
And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 
What  thou  saidst  and  what  thou  didst, 
Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through, 
And  all  thou  art  ready  to  say  and  do 
In  the  trials  that  remain  : 
I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other  vein 
That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again, 
Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark  ; 
And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 
Each  eye's  profound  and  glorious  globe 
Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark 
In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark, 
Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst  and  flee, 
Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 
And  on  that  round  young  cheek  of  thine 
I  make  them  recognize  the  tinge, 
As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 
They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 
And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  afloat 
One  thick  gold  drop  from  the  olive's  coat 
Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 
Still  thro'  the  mixture  shall  be  seen. 
For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  55 

Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast, 

To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 

And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 

Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the  rest — 

When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms  are  wide, 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 

For  there  is  probation  to  decree, 

And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 

Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure, 

If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  are  sure ; 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 

Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  mountain  tomb, — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 

Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom, 

And  steel  and  fire  have  done  their  part, 

And  the  prize  falls  on  its  finder's  heart  ; 

So,  trial  after  trial  past, 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last 

Breathless,  half  in  trance 

With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  for  evermore  ; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  those  arms  once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 

How  love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve  ! 

Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy  ;* 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want  ; 

Art  thou  the  tree  that  props  the  plant, 

Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the  tree — 

Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we  help  thee  ? 


56  THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE   DUCHESS. 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done  ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right  : 

So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end, 

And  blend, — as  much  as  may  be,  blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee, — 

As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 

Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and  down, 

Up  and  about,  with  blossoms  and  leaves  ? 

Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland  crown, 

Cling  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine  cleaves, 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear 

While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere  ? 

Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 

And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 

To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 

And  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway  ? 

I  foresee  and  could  foretell 

Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well  : 

But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true,  speak  true, 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do  ! 

Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life, 

In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 

Never  shall  be  unobserved  ; 

We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 

And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear, — 

Lo,  hast  thou  kept  thy  path  or  swerved, 

We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 

With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 

Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 

Glad,  angry — but  indifferent,  no  ! 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  57 

Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go, 

For  the  good  of  us  all,  where  the  haters  meet 

In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street ; 

Or  thou  step  alone  through  the  morass 

Where  never  sound  yet  was 

Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's  bill, 

For  the  air  is  still,  and  the  water  still, 

When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping  coot 

Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 

So  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age, 

Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage  ; 

How  else  wouldst  thou  retire  apart 

With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart 

And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 

Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 

Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 

The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind  ? 

Ponder  on  the  entire  past 

Laid  together  thus  at  last, 

When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 

The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hues, 

And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 

As  round  eve's  shades  their  framework  roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul. 

And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 

Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 

And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream, 

Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam, 

Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes, 

Then " 

Ay,  then  indeed  something  would  happen  ! 
But  what  ?  For  here  her  voice  changed  like  a  bird's  ; 
There  grew  more  of  the  music  and  less  of  the  words  ; 


53  THE  E LIGHT   OE   THE   DUCHESS. 

Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap  pen 

To  paper  and  put  you  down  every  syllable 

With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 

All  I  've  forgotten  as  well  as  what  lingers 

In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that's  but  ill  able 

To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 

Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with  stammering  ! 

— More  fault  of  those  who  had  the  hammering 

Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax, 

And  did  it,  not  with  hobnails  but  tintacks  ! 

But  to  return  from  this  excursion, — 

Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song  was  sweetest, 

The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm  completest, 

There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap — 

And  the  charm  vanished  ! 

And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely  banished, 

And,  starting  as  from  a  nap, 

I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my  lady, 

With  Jacynth  asleep  ;  and  but  one  spring  made  I 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to  the  portal, 

Another  minute  and  I  had  entered, — 

When  the  door  opened,  and  more  than  mortal 

Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind  centred 

All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 

The  Duchess  :  I  stopped  as  if  struck  by  palsy. 

She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beautiful, 

I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best, 

And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the  rest, 

But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be  dutiful. 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  commanding ; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye, 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the  breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS.  59 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild  creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires, 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend  requires, 

And  does  its  bidding  without  teachers. 

I  preceded  her  ;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone  ; 

I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  merely  jabbered 

In  the  old  style  ;  both  her  eyes  had  slunk 

Back  to  their  pits  ;  her  stature  shrunk  ; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Like  a  blade  sent  home  to  its  scabbard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding  ; 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heeding ; 

All  the  world  was  at  the  chase, 

The  court-yard  like  a  desert  place, 

The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry  ; 

I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfrey 

I  remember  patting  while  it  carried  her, 

The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke  married  her. 

And,  do  you  know,  though  it 's  easy  deceiving 

One's  self  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help  believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 

And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much  beneath  her 

Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for  her  service, 

To  dance  on  hot  ploughshares  like  a  Turk  dervise, 

But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where  owing  it, 

Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method  of  showing  it. 

For  though,  the  moment  I  began  setting 

His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Berold's  begetting, 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive) 

She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was  shifting, 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 

And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclusive, 


60  THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  refused  me, — 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 

Yet  when  she  was  mounted,  the  Gypsy  behind  her 

And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 

I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadiness 

Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded  me, 

— Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  in  readiness 

Whenever  God  should  please  she  needed  me, — 

Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked  down  on  me 

With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on  me, 

And  she  felt  in  her  bosom, — mark,  her  bosom — 

And,  as  a  flower-tree  drops  its  blossom, 

Dropped  me     .     .     .     ah,  had  it  been  a  purse 

Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that 's  worse, 

Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 

So  understood, — that  a  true  heart  so  may  gain 

Such  a  reward, — I  should  have  gone  home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned  myself  ! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake, — 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear, 

Ever  did  (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudgment), 

And  ever  shall,  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  then, — and  then, — to  cut  short,— this  is  idle, 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to  foster, — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the  bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded, — and  so  we  lost  her. 

xvi. 

When  the  liquor's  out  why  clink  the  cannikin  ? 
I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 
The  redoubtable  breast  of  our  master  the  mannikin, 
And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  mother's  yellowness, 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS.  61 

How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap  the  spare-rib 
Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl-diving  Carib, 
When   she  heard,  what  she  called  the  flight  of  the 

feloness 
— But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 
What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady  away ! 
And  to  dance  on,  when  we  've  lost  the  music, 
Always  made  me — and  no  doubt  makes  you — sick. 
Nay,  to  my  mind,  the  world's  face  looked  so  stern 
As  that  sweet  form  disappeared  through  the  postern, 
She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good  humor, 
It  ought  to  have  stopped  ;  there  seemed  nothing  to 

do  more. 
But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and  went  on, 
And  my  head  's  one  that  its  spite  was  spent  on : 
Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morning, 
And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorning. 
Nor  did  the  old  Duchess  die  outright, 
As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite, 
The  natural  end  of  every  adder 
Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison-bladder  : 
But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take  it, 
That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story  to  wake  it, 
For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride  rankled  fiery  ; 
So,  they  made  no  search  and  small  inquiry : 
And  when  fresh  Gypsies  have  paid  us  a  visit,  I  've 
Noticed  the  couple  were  never  inquisitive, 
But  told  them  they  're  folks  the  Duke  do  n't  want  here, 
And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross  the  frontier. 
Brief,  the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the  Duke  was  glad 

of  it, 
And  the  old  one  was  in  the  young  one's  stead, 
And  took,  in  her  place,  the  household's  head, 
And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had  of  it ! 


62 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 

I  could  favor  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse  : 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 

Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 

XVII. 

You  're  my  friend  — 

What  a  thing  friendship  is,  world  without  end ! 

How'  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir-up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glorious  runlet, 

And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  sparklingly,  sunlit, 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky  syrup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  Druids — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  monarch  of  fluids  ; 

Each  supples  a  dry  brain,  fills  you  its  ins-and-outs, 

Gives  your  life's  hour-glass  a  shake  when  the  thin  sand 

doubts 
Whether  to  run  on  or  stop  short,  and  guarantees 
Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and  arrant  ease. 
I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 
Jacynth,  the  Gypsy,  Berold,  and  the  rest  of  it, 
For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told  you  before  ; 
I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  : 
And  now  it  is  made—why,  my  heart's  blood,  that  went 

trickle, 
Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets, 
Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ventricle, 
And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS.  63 

I  '11  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do  : 

I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life  through — 

He  is  our  Duke,  after  all, 

And  I,  as  he  says,  but  a  serf  and  thrall, 

My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  inherit 

His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son  with  ; 

Could  I  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  prefer  it, 

But  there  's  no  mine  to  blow  up  and  get  done  with  : 

So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners-adapter, 

Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 

Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  morion 

And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels  he  '11  kick  up, 

Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hiccup. 

And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword  of  our  Duke  rust, 

And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrown  with  a  blue  crust, 

Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earnings ; 

For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Jacynth  reposes, 

And  our  children  all  went  the  way  of  the  roses  : 

It 's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel  in  ; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak  shall  I  indue  : 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  javelin 

With  which  his  boars  my  father  pinned  you  ? 

And  then,  for  a  purpose  you  shall  hear  presently, 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump  skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I,  pleasantly  ! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sinful. 

What's  a  man's  age  ?    He  must  hurry  more,  that 's  all ; 

Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a  year  to  hold  : 

When  we  mind  labor,  then  only,  we  're  too  old — 

What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he  begat  Saul  ? 

And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted  ship  sees, 

(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north-parts  with  sperm  oil) 


64  THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS, 

I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  turmoil 

And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the  Gypsies, 

And  find  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last  news  of  her 

From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Lucifer, 

His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wrreathy  hop, 

Sunburned  all  over  like  an  JEthiop. 

And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  operate 

And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at  a  proper  rate, 

And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows  each  flaccid  dent, 

I  shall  drop  in  with — as  if  by  accident— 

"  You  never  knew  then,  how  it  all  ended, 

What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 

The  little  lady  your  Queen  befriended  ?" 

—And  when  that's  told  me,  what's  remaining? 

This  world  's  too  hard  for  my  explaining. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four-year-old 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Berold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French  weak  wTine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner ! 

Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau  : 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world  's  one  see-saw. 

■ — So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  corner 

Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  the  wood-knight, 

Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world  good  night  ; 

And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trumpet's  blowing 

Wakes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us  laymen) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further  throwing 

Pearls  before  swine  that  can  't  value  them.     Amen  ! 


GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  A IX. 


SONG  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES. 

The  year 's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning  's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side  's  dew-pearled  ; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God's  in  His  heaven — 
All 's  right  with  the  world. 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 
FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX." 

[16-.] 


I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he  ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  ; 
"  Good  speed  !  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  un- 
drew ; 
"  Speed  !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our 
place  ; 
5 


66  GOOD   NEWS  FROM   GHENT  TO  A IX. 

I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit 

in. 
T  was  moonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear  ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half 

chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time!" 

IV. 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 

v. 
And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

VI. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris  "  Stay 

spur  ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault 's  not  in  her, 


GOOD  NFAVS  FROM   GIT  EXT  TO  ATX.  67 

We  '11  remember  at  Aix  " — for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering 

knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

VII. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff  ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight ! 

VIII. 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us  !  " — and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

IX. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called   my    Roland   his   pet-name,  my  horse  without 

peer  ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad 

or  good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


6S  SONG   FROM  "PARACELSUS." 

X. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news 
from  Ghent. 


SONG  FROM  -'PARACELSUS." 


Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair  :  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island  gain. 


And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 
Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled  ; 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 


THROUGH  THE  METIDJA   TO  ABD-EL-KADEK.     69 


THROUGH      THE      METIDJA     TO      ABD-EL- 
KADER. 

1842. 
1. 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 
So  its  tide  rocks  my  side, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
That,  as  I  were  double-eyed, 
He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 
Is  descried,  ways  untried 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

11. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 

Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

in. 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
When  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 
The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 
(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 
O'er  each  visioned  homicide 
That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied  ?) 
To  reside — where  he  died, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 


INC IV EXT   OF   THE   FRENCH  CAMP. 
IV. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Shows  where  sweat  has  sprung  and  dried. 

— Zebra-footed,  ostrich-thighed — 

How  has  vied  stride  with  stride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ! 

v. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pride,  she  should  hide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

All  that 's  meant  me — satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I  'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ! 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 


You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH  CAMP. 


Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall, — " 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

in. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 

Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "     The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 


77 J E  LOST   LEADER. 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  ; 
You  're  wounded  !  "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
I  'm  killed,  Sire  !  "     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


THE    LOST    LEADER. 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others,  she  lets  us  devote  ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service  ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  loved  him   so,   followed  him,   honored 
him, 

J_.ived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were    with  us, — they  watch    from 
their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  ! 

ii. 

We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence  ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 


IN  A    GONDOLA.  73 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire  ; 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us  ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on   well,   for  we  taught   him — strike  gal- 
lantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own  ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  ! 


IN   A   GONDOLA. 


He  sin^s. 


I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part  : 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling-place. 

She  speaks. 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 
My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 
Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 
In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way  : 
"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 


74  IN  A    GONDOLA. 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear  ;  which"  (say  again) 

"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And  yet  once  more  say  ...  no  word  more  ! 

Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er  ! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

Tvvixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds! 

What  's  left  but— all  of  me  to  take  ? 

I  am  the  Three's  :  prevent  them,  slake 

Your  thirst !     Tis  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes  :  so,  sweet  mage, 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage  ! 

He  sings. 
I. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

What  's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast  ? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride  : 

Past  we  glide  ! 


IN  A    GONDOLA.  75 

II. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

Why  's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  ? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried  : 

Past  we  glide  ! 

She  sines. 


The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

11. 
The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings. 
I. 

What  are  we  two  ? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe  ; 


7  6  AV  /*    GONDOLA. 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 
The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 
Thy  .  .   .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever  !     And  now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 

II. 

Say  again,  what  we  are  ? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering  away 

Some  .  .  .   Scatter  the  vision  for  ever!     And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 

He  muses. 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest  ? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast  ? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shadows,  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must  ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves  ? 

He  speaks,  musing. 

Lie  back  ;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you  5 
From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing; 
Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you  ! 
Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 
With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 
They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 
Broader,  into  burning  gold, 


IN  A    GONDOLA.  77 

Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world  ! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real  ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks  !     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art ! 

Still  he  muses. 
I. 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader  ?     While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back  ;  I  reel  ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel  ? 

11. 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And  ...   on  thy  breast  I  sink  ! 

She  replies,  musing. 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow-deep, 

As  I  do  :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 

Caught  this  way  ?     Death  's  to  fear  from   flame    or 

steel, 
Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water — feel ! 


7S  IN  A    GONDOLA. 

Go  find  the  bottom!     Would  you  stay  me  ?     There! 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 

To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 

I  flung  away  :  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 

'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speaks. 

Row  home  ?  must  we  row  home  ?     Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front 's  demurely 

Over  the  Guidecca  piled  ; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All 's  the  set  face  of  a  child  : 

But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face  ? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea- water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead  ! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony, 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled, 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 


IN  A    GONDOLA.  79 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain, 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again  ! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine  !     What  should  your  chamber  do  ? 

— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 

Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

These  objects,  and,  wmile  day  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look  :  your  harp,  believe, 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 

Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Make  murmur,  wheresoe'er  they  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell  ! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend ! 


So  IN  A    COXDOLA. 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 
You  'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 
Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 
To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke ! 
And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 
Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 
You  'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 
Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser — 
As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 
And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 
On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 
Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 
AVhat  litter  now  the  board  employs 
Whereon  he  signed  a  document 
That  got  him  murdered  !     Each  enjoys 
Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 
The  sport  up  :  so,  indeed  must  make 
More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 
She  speaks. 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze  !     If  the  ribbon  's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching  :  keep  away  ! 

ii. 
Your  gondola— let  Zorzi  wreathe 
A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 
Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 
Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair  ! 
That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 
As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 


A    LOVERS"    QUARREL.  Si 

There  's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper  ;  safe  are  we. 
Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me  ? 
Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago  ! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to  land, 
And  say,  "All  thanks,  Siora  !  " — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips  !     Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art ! 

He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet  !— and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me  !     Care  not  for  the  cowards  !     Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt !     The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn, 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived :  but  I 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more  kiss)— can 
die! 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL. 


Oh,  what  a-  dawn  of  day  ! 

How  the  March  sun  feels  like  May! 

All  is  blue  again 

After  last  night's  rain, 
And  the  South  dries  the  hawthorn-spray. 

Only,  my  Love  's  away  ! 
I  'd  as  lief  that  the  blue  were  gray. 
6 


82  A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

II. 

Runnels,  which  rillets  swell, 
Must  be  dancing  down  the  dell, 

With  a  foaming  head 

On  the  beryl  bed 
Paven  smooth  as  a  hermit's  cell  : 

Each  with  a  tale  to  tell, 
Could  my  love  but  attend  as  well. 

in. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago  ! 

When  we  lived  blocked-up  with  snow, — - 

When  the  wind  would  edge 

In  and  in  his  wedge, 
In,  as  far  as  the  point  could  go — 

Not  to  our  ingle,  though, 
Where  we  loved  each  the  other  so  ! 

IV. 

Laughs  with  so  little  cause  ! 
We  devised  games  out  of  straws. 

We  would  try  and  trace 

One  another's  face 
In  the  ash,  as  an  artist  draws  ; 

Free  on  each  other's  flaws, 
How  we  chattered  like  two  church  daws  ! 

v. 

What  's  in  the  "  Times  "  ? — a  scold 
At  the  Emperor  deep  and  cold  ; 

He  has  taken  a  bride 

To  his  gruesome  side, 
That  's  as  fair  as  himself  is  bold  : 

There  they  sit  ermine-stoled, 
And  she  powders  her  hair  with  gold. 


A    LOVERS"    QUARREL.  S3 

VI. 

Fancy  the  Pampas'  sheen  ! 

Miles  and  miles  of  gold  and  green 
Where  the  sunflowers  blow- 
In  a  solid  glow, 

And  to  break  now  and  then  the  screen — 
Black  neck  and  eyeballs  keen, 

Up  a  wild  horse  leaps  between  ! 

VII. 

Try,  will  our  table  turn  ? 

Lay  your  hands  there  light,  and  yearn 

Till  the  yearning  slips 

Thro'  the  finger-tips 
In  a  fire  which  a  few  discern, 

And  a  very  few  feel  burn, 
And  the  rest,  they  may  live  and  learn ! 

VIII. 

Then  we  would  up  and  pace, 
For  a  change,  about  the  place, 

Each  with  arm  o'er  neck  : 

'T  is  our  quarter-deck, 
We  are  seamen  in  woeful  case. 

Help  in  the  ocean-space  ! 
Or,  if  no  help,  we  '11  embrace. 

IX. 

See,  how  she  looks  now,  dressed 
In  a  sledging-cap  and  vest ! 

'T  is  a  huge  fur  cloak — 

Like  a  reindeer's  roke 
Falls  the  lappet  along  the  breast : 

Sleeves  for  her  arts  to  rest, 
Or  to  hang,  as  my  Love  likes  best. 


84  A    LOVERS'    QUARREL. 

X. 

Teach  mc  to  flirt  a  fan 

As  the  Spanish  ladies  can, 
Or  I  tint  your  lip 
With  a  burnt  stick's  tip 

And  you  turn  into  such  a  man  ! 

Just  the  two  spots  that  span 

Half  the  bill  of  the  young  male  swan. 

XI. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  the  mesmerizer  Snow 

With  his  hand's  first  sweep 

Put  the  earth  to  sleep 
'T  was  a  time  when  the  heart  could  show 

All — how  was  earth  to  know, 
'Neath  the  mute  hand's  to-and-fro  ? 

XII. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  we  loved  each  other  so, 

Lived  and  loved  the  same 

Till  an  evening  came 
When  a  shaft  from  the  devil's  bow 

Pierced  to  our  ingle-glow, 
And  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe  ! 

XIII. 

Not  from  the  heart  beneath — 

'T  was  a  bubble  born  of  breath, 
Neither  sneer  nor  vaunt, 
Nor  reproach  nor  taunt. 

See  a  word,  how  it  severeth ! 

Oh,  power  of  life  and  death 

In  the  tongue,  as  the  Preacher  saith  ! 


A   LOVERS'    QUARREL.  85 

XIV. 

Woman,  and  will  you  cast 
For  a  word,  quite  off  at  last 

Me,  your  own,  your  You, — 

Since,  as  truth  is  true, 
I  was  You  all  the  happy  past — 

Me  do  you  leave  aghast 
With  the  memories  We  amassed  ? 

xv. 
Love,  if  you  knew  the  light 
That  your  soul  casts  in  my  sight, 

How  I  look  to  you 

For  the  pure  and  true, 
And  the  beauteous  and  the  right, — 

Bear  with  a  moment's  spite 
When  a  mere  mote  threats  the  white ! 

XVI. 

What  of  a  hasty  word  ? 

Is  the  fleshly  heart  not  stirred 

By  a  worm's  pin-prick 

Where  its  roots  are  quick  ? 
See  the  eye,  by  a  fly's-foot  blurred — 

Ear,  when  a  straw  is  heard 
Scratch  the  brain's  coat  of  curd  ! 

XVII. 

Foul  be  the  world  or  fair 
More  or  less,  how  can  I  care  ? 

'T  is  the  world  the  same 

For  my  praise  or  blame, 
And  endurance  is  easy  there. 

Wrong  in  the  one  thing  rare — 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear ! 


86                             A    LOVERS"    QUARREL. 

XVIII. 

Here  's  the  spring  back  or  close, 

When  the  almond-blossom  blows  ; 

We  shall  have  the  word 

In  a  minor  third 

There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows : 

Heaps  of  the  guelder-rose  ! 

I  must  bear  with  it,  I  suppose. 

XIX. 

Could  but  November  come, 

Were  the  noisy  birds  struck  dumb 

At  the  warning  slash 

Of  his  driver's-lash — 
I  would  laugh  like  the  valiant  Thumb 

Facing  the  castle  glum 
And  the  giant's  fee-faw-fum  ! 


xx. 


Then,  were  the  world  well  stripped 

Of  the  gear  wherein  equipped 
We  can  stand  apart, 
Heart  dispense  with  heart 

In  the  sun,  with  the  flowers  unnipped,- 
Oh,  the  world's  hangings  ripped, 

We  were  both  in  a  bare-walled  crypt ! 

XXI. 

Each  in  the  crypt  would  cry 

"  But  one  freezes  here  !  and  why  ? 
When  a  heart,  as  chill, 
At  my  own  would  thrill 

Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly  ? 
Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die  ? 

The  rest     .     .     .     settle  by  and  by  !  " 


EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES.  87 

XXII. 

So,  she  'd  efface  the  score, 
And  forgive  me  as  before. 

It  is  twelve  o'clock  : 

I  shall  hear  her  knock 
In  the  worst  of  a  storm's  uproar  : 

I  shall  pull  her  through  the  door, 
I  shall  have  her  for  evermore  ! 


EARTH'S    IMMORTALITIES. 

FAME. 

See,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its  prime  ; 
Spite  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier  rods ; 
Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brick-work  promised  by-and-by  ; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date  ! 

LOVE. 

So,  the  year  's  done  with  ! 

[Love  me  for  eve?-  /) 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor  ; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever; 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 

Quenching  June's  fever — 

(Love  me  for  ever!) 


S8  THE  LAST  RIDE   TOGETHER. 


THE   LAST   RIDE   TOGETHER. 


I  said — Then,  dearest,  since  't  is  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

ii. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers  ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance  :  right ! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain  : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ? 

in. 

Hush  !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 


THE  LAST  RIDE   TOGETHER.  89 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here  ! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

IV. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry  ? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me  ?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell  ? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

v. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  ? 
We  rode  ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me  ;  here  we  ride. 


ro  THE   LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER. 

VI. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshy  screen  ? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There  's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing  !  what  atones  ? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

VII. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet  ?     Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is  something,  nay  't  is  much  :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what 's  best  for  men  ? 
Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  have  never  turned  a  rhyme  ? 

Sing,  riding's  a  joy  !     For  me,  I  ride. 

VIII. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 
You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  t 


THE   LAST  RIDE    TOGETHER.  91 

What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end ! " 
I  gave  my  youth  ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

IX. 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?     Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best  ? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

x. 

And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long ! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  for  ever  ride  ? 


92  MESMERISM. 


MESMERISM. 


All  I  believed  is  true ! 

I  am  able  yet 

All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new  : 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you  ? 


If  at  night,  when  doors  are  shut, 

And  the  wood-worm  picks, 

And  the  death-watch  ticks, 

And  the  bar  has  a  flag  of  smut, 

And  a  cat 's  in  the  water-butt — 

in. 

And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 
And  the  house-beams  groan, 
And  a  foot  unknown 

Is  surmised  on  the  garret-stairs, 

And  the  locks  slip  unawares — 

IV. 

And  the  spider,  to  serve  his  ends, 

By  a  sudden  thread, 

Arms  and  legs  outspread, 
On  the  table's  midst  descends, 
Comes  to  find,  God  knows  what  friends  !- 


MESMERISM. 


If  since  eve  drew  in,  I  say, 
I  have  sat  and  brought 
(So  to  speak)  my  thought 
To  bear  on  the  woman  away, 
Till  I  felt  my  hair  turn  gray — ■ 

VI. 

Till  I  seemed  to  have  and  hold, 
In  the  vacancy 
'Twixt  the  wall  and  me 
From  the  hair-plait's  chestnut-gold 
To  the  foot  in  its  muslin  fold — 

VII. 

Have  and  hold,  then  and  there, 
Her,  from  head  to  foot, 
Breathing  and  mute, 

Passive  and  yet  aware, 

In  the  grasp  of  my  steady  stare— 

VIII. 

Hold  and  have,  there  and  then, 
All  her  body  and  soul 
That  completes  my  whole, 
All  that  women  add  to  men, 
In  the  clutch  of  my  steady  ken — 

IX. 

Having  and  holding,  till 

I  imprint  her  fast 

On  the  void  at  last 
As  the  sun  does  whom  he  will 
By  the  calotypist's  skill — 


93 


94  MESMERISM. 


Then, — if  my  heart's  strength  serve, 
And  through  all  and  each 
Of  the  veils  I  reach 

To  her  soul  and  never  swerve, 

Knitting  an  iron  nerve — 

XI. 

Command  her  soul  to  advance 
And  inform  the  shape 
Which  has  made  escape 
And  before  my  countenance 
Answers  me  glance  for  glance— 

XII. 

I,  still  with  a  gesture  fit 

Of  my  hands  that  best 

Do  my  soul's  behest, 
Pointing  the  power  from  it, 
While  myself  do  steadfast  sit — 

XIII. 

Steadfast  and  still  the  same 
On  my  object  bent, 
While  the  hands  give  vent 
To  my  ardor  and  my  aim 
And  break  into  very  flame — 

XIV. 

Then  I  reach,  I  must  believe, 

Not  her  soul  in  vain, 

For  to  me  again 
It  reaches,  and  past  retrieve 
Is  wound  in  the  toils  I  weave  ; 


MESMERISM.  95 

XV. 
And  must  follow  as  I  require, 

As  befits  a  thrall, 

Bringing  flesh  and  all, 
Essence  and  earth-attire, 
To  the  source  of  the  tractile  fire  : 

XVI. 

Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 

With  a  growing  weight 

Seems  to  suffocate 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine. 

XVII. 

Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 

On  to  the  maze 

Of  the  wild  wood-ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  nor  right 
From  the  pathway,  blind  with  sight— 

XVIII. 

Making  thro'  rain  and  wind 

O'er  the  broken  shrubs, 

'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  still,  composed,  strong  mind, 
Not  a  care  for  the  world  behind — 

XIX. 

Swifter  and  still  more  swift, 

As  the  crowding  peace 

Doth  to  joy  increase 
In  the  wide  blind  eyes  uplift 
Thro'  the  darkness  and  the  drift ! 


96  MESMERISM. 

XX. 

While  I— to  the  shape,  I  too 

Feel  my  soul  dilate  : 

Nor  a  whit  abate, 
And  relax  not  a  gesture  due, 
As  I  see  my  belief  come  true. 

XXI. 

For,  there !  have  I  drawn  or  no 

Life  to  that  lip  ? 

Do  my  fingers  dip 
In  a  flame  which  again  they  throw 
On  the  cheek  that  breaks  a-glow  ? 

XXII. 

Ha !  was  the  hair  so  first  ? 
What,  unfilleted, 
Made  alive,  and  spread 
Through  the  void  with  a  rich  outburst, 
Chestnut  gold-interspersed  ? 

XXIII. 

Like  the  doors  of  a  casket-shrine, 

See,  on  either  side, 

Her  two  arms  divide 
Till  the  heart  betwixt  makes  sign, 
"Take  me,  for  I  am  thine!  " 


xxiv. 
«  Now — now  " — the  door  is  heard  ! 

Hark,  the  stairs  !  and  near — 

Nearer — and  here — 
"  Now  ! "  and,  at  call  the  third, 
She  enters  without  a  word. 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 
XXV. 

On  dotli  she  march  and  on 
To  the  fancied  shape  ; 
It  is,  past  escape, 
Herself,  now  :  the  dream  is  done 
And  the  shadow  and  she  are  one. 

XXVI. 

First,  I  will  pray.     Do  Thou 
That  ownest  the  soul, 
Yet  wilt  grant  control 
To  another,  nor  disallow 
For  a  time,  restrain  me  now  ! 

XXVII. 

I  admonish  me  while  I  may, 
Not  to  squander  guilt, 
Since  require  Thou  wilt 

At  my  hand  its  price  one  day  ! 

What  the  price  is,  who  can  say  ? 


97 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


i. 


How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 

When  the  long  dark  autumn  evenings  come  ; 

And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue  ? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 

In  life's  November  too  ! 
7 


BY    THE   FIRESIDE. 

II. 
I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 

O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseemeth  age  ; 
While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows, 

And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 
Not  verse  now,  only  prose  ! 

in. 

Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 
"There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek  : 

Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 

A  mainmast  for  our  ship  ! " 

IV. 

I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends ! 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 

v. 

The  outside  frame,  like  your  hazel-trees — 
But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast, 

And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 
And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 

And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 

VI. 

I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  wrell  the  leader's  hand  : 

Oh  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 

Laid  to  their  hearts  instead  ! 


BY    THE   FIRESIDE.  99 

VII. 

Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 

Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge  ! 
Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 

Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron  forge 
Breaks  solitude  in  vain  ? 

VIII. 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things  ; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim  ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings  ! 

IX. 

Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella ;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow! 


On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock  ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

XI. 

Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers ! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit 's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 


o  BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 

XII. 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 

XIII. 

By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening — nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-colored  flaky  crew 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 

XIV. 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge, 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 

XV. 

The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 

Blackish-gray  and  mostly  wet ; 
Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dyke. 

See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 
And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike  ! 

XVI. 

Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams — 


BY    THE   E/A'ES/E'E.  101 

XVII' 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dresser's  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 

XVIII. 

It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 

With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 
Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont : 

'T  is  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 
But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt — 

XIX. 

Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 

Dating — good  thought  of  our  architect's — 
'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 

xx. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times ; 
The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

XXI. 

My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh  heart,  my  own,  oh  eyes,  mine  too, 
Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 

With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 
The  path  gray  heads  abhor? 


2  /  r    THE  FIRESIDE. 

XXII. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them ; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops — 
Not  they ;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  our  life's  safe  hem ! 

XXIII. 

With  me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Mutely,  my  heart  knows  how — 

XXIV. 

When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme ; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time, 

Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff. 

xxv. 

My  own,  confirm  me !  If  I  tread 

This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 
To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 

To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 
Youth  seems  the  waste  instead  ? 

XXVI. 

My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct! 

At  first,  't  was  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do ;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now:  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 


BY    THE   FIRESIDE. 
XXVII. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands? 

XXVIII. 

Oh  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine ! 

XXIX. 

But  who  could  have  expected  this 

When  we  two  drew  together  first 
Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 

To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 
With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss  ? 

XXX. 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 
Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 

Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 
Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 

And  gather  what  we  let  fall  ! 

XXXI. 

What  did  I  say  ? — that  a  small  bird  sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 

Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noon-day  glare 

You  count  the  streaks  and  rimrs. 


*°3 


ICH  BY    THE   FIRESIDE. 

XXXII. 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 
'T  is  better  ;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 

XXXIII. 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

XXXIV. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 
And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 

And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 

And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

xxxv. 
Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 

Look  through  the  window's  grated  square  : 
Nothing  to  see  !     For  fear  of  plunder, 

The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 
As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 

xxxvi. 
We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date  ; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again — but  wait  ! 


BY    THE   EI  RESIDE.  105 

XXXVII. 
Oh  moment  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone  ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright  : 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 

XXXVIII. 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well  : 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 

XL. 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her  : 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 
And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 

Friends — lovers  that  might  have  been. 

XLI. 

For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time, 
Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 
But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test  ! 

"  Hold  the  last  fast  !  "  runs  the  rhyme. 


106  BY    77//-:   FIR ESI DE. 

XI. II. 

For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend 
But  a  last  leaf — fear  to  touch  ! 

XLIII. 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind — best  chance  of  all  ! 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall  ! 

XLIV. 

Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eves, 
That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 

That  a  man  chould  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize  ! 

XL  v. 

You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 

XL  VI. 

But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 
And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 

If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 

They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third  ; 

One  near  one  is  too  far. 


BY    THE   FIRESIDE.  107 

XLVII. 
A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast  ; 
But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 

Life  and  life  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 
In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

XLVIII. 

The  forests  had  done  it  ;  there  they  stood  ; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play : 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good, 

Their  work  was  done — we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

XLIX. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  ! 

L. 

Be  hate  that  fruit  or  love  that  fruit, 
It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan  ; 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 

LI. 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat  ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree  ; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me — ■ 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet  ! 


108  ANY   WIFE   TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

LII. 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fire-side  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 

LIII. 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 

And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too  ; 

And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes  :  which  I  mean  to  do 

One  day,  as  I  said  before. 


ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

i. 

My  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou — 
Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love  me  now 

As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thy  voice  breaks  to  say — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst  love  me  still 
A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love  its  will, 

Would   death,    that    leads    me   from    thee,    brook 
delay. 


I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Will  never  let  mine  go,  nor  heart  withstand 

The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone  ? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none  ? 

Never,  I  know  !     Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 


ANY   WIFE    TO  ANY  HUSBAND.  109 

III. 

Oh,  I  should  fade — 't  is  willed  so  !     Might  I  save, 
Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  precious  too. 
It  is  not  to  be  granted.     But  the  soul 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  whole  ; 

Vainly  the  flesh  fades  ;  soul  makes  all  things  new. 

IV. 

It  would  not  be  because  my  eye  grew  dim 

Thou  couldst  not  find  the  love  there,  thanks  to  Him 

Who  never  is  dishonored  in  the  spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and  bade 
Remember  whence  it  sprang,  nor  be  afraid 

While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the  rest  grow  dark. 


So,  how  thou  wouldst  be  perfect,  white  and  clean 
Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  demesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by ! 
Oh,  three-parts  through  the  worst  of  life's  abyss, 
What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after  this, 

Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain  the  sky  ! 

VI. 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 

That,  disengage  our  hands  and  thou  wilt  sink 

Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very  deed  ? 
I  know  that  nature  !     Pass  a  festive  day, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echo  speed. 


no  ANY   WIFE    TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

VII. 

Thou  lct'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where  it  fell ; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is  well, 

For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man  best  : 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one  tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so  soon 

With  thee  would  such  things  fade  as  with  the  rest. 

VIII. 

I  seem  to  see  !     We  meet  and  part  ;  't  is  brief  ; 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf, 

The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the  rank  ; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a  call : 

And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour  to  thank  ! 

IX. 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through  years  was  fixed, 
Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed, 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me — wilt  thou  dare 
Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
"  Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride  ; 

Chance  cannot  change  my  love,  nor  time  impair. 

x. 

"  So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that 's  left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft, 

Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking  the  same, 
The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and  gone  ? 
■ — Where  was  it  till  the  sunset  ?  where  anon 

It  will  be  at  the  sunrise  !     What 's  to  blame  ? " 


T 


ANY   WIFE    TO   ANY  HUSBAND.  in 

XL 

Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee  ?     Canst  thou  take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's  sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam  ? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long, 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the  strong  ? 

Watch   out   thy   watch,    let   weak    ones   doze    and 
dream  ! 

XII. 

— Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces  !    "  Is  it  true," 
Thou 'It  ask,  "  some  eyes  are  beautiful  and  new  ? 

Some  hair,— how  can  one  choose   but  grasp  such 
wealth  ? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to  lips 
Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose-cup  there  slips 

The  dew-drop  out  of,  must  it  be  by  stealth  ? 

XIII. 

"  It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept  for  Her, 
More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 

Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare  side  : 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she  possessed, 
Yet,  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest, 

A  man  looks.    Once  more,  what  is  there  to  chide  ? " 

XIV. 

So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and  watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach 

Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from  me — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me  proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 

Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God  see  ! 


ii2  ANY   WIFE    TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

XV. 

Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt  !     Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces — disentranced, 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more, 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print 

Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore  ! 

xvi. 

Re-coin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend, — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art,  and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless  :  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee  ! 

XVII. 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all  ? 
Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal, 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow  ? 
Why  need  the  other  women  know  so  much, 
And  talk  together,  "Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now  !  " 

XVIII. 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee  !     Should  I  find 
Such  hardships  in  the  few  years  left  behind, 

If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and  go 
Into  my  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit, 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 

The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I  know  ! 


ANY   WIFE    TO  ANY  HUSBAND,  n: 

XIX. 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more 

By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn  at  first ; 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the  low  door-way's  lintel.     That  were  cause 

For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst,  if  I  durst  ! 

xx. 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two  : 
What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst  not  do, 

Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride  ? 
I  '11  say  then,  here 's  a  trial  and  a  task  ; 
Is  it  to  bear  ? — if  easy,  I  '11  not  ask  : 

Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in  thy  pride. 

xxi.     . 

Pride  ?_when  those  eyes  forestall  the  life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through  ! — when  I  find, 

Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all  of  thee  ! 
What  did  I  fear  ?  Thy  love  shall  hold  me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 

And  I  wake  saved. — And  yet  it  will  not  be  ! 
8 


ii4  IN  A    YEAR. 


IN    A   YEAR. 


Never  any  more, 

While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive  : 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

ii. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun  : 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

in. 
When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sung, 

— Sweetly  too. 
If  T  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprung, 

Then  he  heard. 


IN  A    YEAR. 

IV. 
Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  but  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet  : 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

v. 
"  Speak,  I  love  thee  best !  " 

He  exclaimed  : 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell !  " 

I  confessed  : 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine  ! " 

VI. 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth  : 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

VII. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

— To  be  just, 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised, 

To  content. 


"5 


n6  IN  A    YEAR. 


Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

VIII. 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

— Paid  my  debt ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till  all  gone, 
He  should  smile  "  She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 

IX. 

"  What,  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men  ! " 

He  should  smile  : 
"  Dying  for  my  sake — 

White  and  pink  ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ? " 


Dear,  the  pang  is  brief, 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure  !     How  perplexed 

Grows  belief  ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart : 
Crumble  it,  and  what  comes  next? 

Is  it  God  ? 


A    WOMAN'S  LAST   WORD.  117 


SONG  FROM  "JAMES  LEE." 

1. 

Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o*  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning  !    How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth : 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 

11. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true  ; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you. 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes  ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above  ! 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 


Let  's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep  : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

— Only  sleep  ! 

11. 
What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough ! 


A    WOMAN'S  LAST    WORD. 

III. 
See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak  ! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek. 

IV. 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee  ? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 

Shun  the  tree — 

v. 

Where  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

VI. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm  ! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm  ! 

VII. 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  ! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought — 

VIII. 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 


MEETING   AT  NIGHT  119 


IX. 


That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight  : 


— Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me  !) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT. 


The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

11. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears  ; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each  ! 


WOMEN  AND  ROSES, 


PARTING  AT  MORNING. 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


WOMEN  AND  ROSES. 


I  dream  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me  ? 

ii. 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages, 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidens, 
Beauties  yet  unborn.     And  all,  to  one  cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

in. 

Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached  : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 


WOMEN  AND  ROSES.  12 1 

IV. 

Stay  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot  climb, 

You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time, 

How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze  you, 

Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you  ? 

Oh,  to  possess  and  be  possessed  ! 

Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid  breast ! 

Once  but  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  passion, 

Drink  but  once  and  die  ! — In  vain,  the  same  fashion, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


Dear  rose,  thy  joy  's  undimmed  ; 

Thy  cup  is  ruby-rimmed, 

Thy  cup's  heart  nectar-brimmed. 

VI. 

Deep,  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 

The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 

So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning, 

Quench  like  him  at  a  plunge  my  yearning, 

Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips  ! 

Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 

Prison  all  my  soul  in  eternities  of  pleasure, 

Girdle  me  for  once  !     But  no — the  old  measure, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


VII. 


Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud  's  the  babe  unborn  : 
First  streak  of  a  new  morn. 


2  MISCOXCEPTWNS. 

VIII. 

Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the  clear  ! 

What  is  far  conquers  what  is  near. 

Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  beholders, 

Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  flesh  moulders. 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change  ? 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  Artist  that  began  her, 

Shaped  her  to  his  mind  ! — Alas  !  in  like  manner 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 


This  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to,- 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to  ! 

ii. 

This  is  a  heart  the  queen  leant  on. 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on, — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on ! 


A    PRETTY   WOMAN. 


A  PRETTY  WOMAN. 


That  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye 

Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers ! 


To  think  men  cannot  take  you,  Sweet, 

And  enfold  you, 

Ay,  and  hold  you, 
And  so  keep  you  what  they  make  you,  Sweet ! 

in. 

You  like  us  for  a  glance,  you  know — 

For  a  word's  sake 

Or  a  sword's  sake  : 
All 's  the  same,  whate'er  the  chance,  you  know. 

IV. 

And  in  turn  we  make  you  ours,  we  say — 

You  and  youth  too, 

Eyes  and  mouth  too, 
All  the  face  composed  of  flowers,  we  say. 

v. 

All 's  our  own,  to  make  the  most  of,  Sweet- 
Sing  and  say  for, 
Watch  and  pray  for, 

Keep  a  secret  or  go  boast  of,  Sweet ! 


124  A   PRETTY   WOMAN. 

VI. 

But  for  loving,  why,  you  would  not,  Sweet, 

Though  we  prayed  you, 

Paid  you,  brayed  you 
In  a  mortar — for  you  could  not,  Sweet  ! 

VII. 

So,  we  leave  the  sweet  face  fondly  there  : 

Be  its  beauty 

Its  sole  duty ! 
Let  all  hope  of  grace  beyond,  lie  there  ! 

VIII. 

And  while  the  face  lies  quiet  there, 

Who  shall  wonder 

That  I  ponder 
A  conclusion  ?     I  will  try  it  there. 

IX. 

As, — why  must  one,  for  the  love  foregone, 

Scout  mere  liking  ? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth, — the  heaven,  we  looked  above  for,  gone  ! 

x. 

Why,  with  beauty,  needs  there  money  be, 

Love  with  liking  ? 

Crush  the  fly-king 
In  his  gauze,  because  no  honey-bee  ? 

XI. 

May  not  liking  be  so  simple-sweet, 

If  love  grew  there 

'T  would  undo  there 
All  that  breaks  the  cheek  to  dimples  sweet  ? 


A    PRETTY   WOMAN.  125 

XII. 
Is  the  creature  too  imperfect,  say  ? 

Would  you  mend  it 

And  so  end  it  ? 
Since  not  all  addition  perfects  aye  ! 

XIII. 

Or  is  it  of  its  kind,  perhaps, 

Just  perfection — 

Whence,  rejection 
Of  a  grace  not  to  its  mind,  perhaps  ? 

XIV. 

Shall  we  burn  up,  tread  that  face  at  once 

Into  tinder, 

And  so  hinder 
Sparks  from  kindling  all  the  place  at  once  ? 

xv. 
Or  else  kiss  away  one's  soul  on  her  ? 

Your  love-fancies  ! 

— A  sick  man  sees 
Truer,  when  his  hot  eyes  roll  on  her  ! 

XVI. 

Thus  the  craftsman  thinks  to  grace  the  rose,— 

Plucks  a  mould-flower 

For  his  gold  flower, 
Uses  fine  things  that  efface  the  rose  : 


XVII. 

Rosy  rubies  make  its  cup  more  rose, 

Precious  metals 

Ape  the  petals, — 
Last,  some  old  king  locks  it  up,  morose  ! 


126  A    LIGHT   WOMAN. 

XVIII. 

Then  how  grace  a  rose  ?     I  know  a  way  ! 

Leave  it,  rather. 

Must  you  gather? 
Smell,  kiss,  wear  it — at  last,  throw  away ! 


A   LIGHT   WOMAN. 


So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 

Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three  ? — 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me  ? 

ii. 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 

And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet, 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 

in. 

When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him 

To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils, 
The  hundredth  for  a  whim  ! 

IV. 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 

How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 
An  eagle  's  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 

Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead  ! 


4   LIGHT   WOMAN.  127 


v. 


So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need, 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 


VI. 


The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world, 
The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 

— You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled  ? 
Patience,  a  moment's  space  ; 


VII. 


For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night, 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 


VIII. 


And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief  : 

"  Though  I  love  her — that,  he  comprehends — 

One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love,  in  chief) 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends  ! " 


IX. 


And  she, — she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 
As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall  ; 

Just  a  touch  to  try,  and  off  it  came  ; 
'T  is  mine, — can  I  let  it  fall  ? 


128  A   LIGHT   WOMAN. 


x. 


With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that 's  the  worst ! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist  ? 
'T  was  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies'  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 


XI. 


And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see  ; 

What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me  ? 

No  hero,  I  confess. 


XII. 


'T  is  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own : 

Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 
We  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  ! 


XIII. 


One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth  ; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true  : 
But  suppose  she  says, — Never  mind  that  youth  ! 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you  ? 


XIV. 


Well,  any  how,  here  the  story  stays, 
So  far  at  least  as  I  understand  ; 

And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays, 
Here  's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand  ! 


LIFE   IN  A    LOVE.  129 

LOVE    IN    A   LIFE. 

1. 
Room  after  room, 
I  hunt  the  house  through 
We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her — 
Next  time,  herself  ! — not  the  trouble  behind  her 
Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume  ! 
As   she   brushed    it,    the   cornice-wreath   blossomed 

anew  ; 
Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

11. 
Yet  the  day  wears, 
And  door  succeeds  door  ; 
I  try  the  fresh  fortune — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 
Still  the  same  chance  !  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest, — who  cares  ? 
But  't  is  twilight,  you  see, — with  such  suites  to  ex 

plore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune ! 


LIFE    IN   A   LOVE. 

Escape  me  ? 

Never — 

Beloved  ! 

While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 

Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
9 


o  THE   LABORATORY. 

While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear  : 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed  ! 

Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed. 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again,— 

So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that  's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest  bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self-same  mark, 
I  shape  me — 
Ever 
Removed ! 


THE   LABORATORY. 

AN  CI  EN    REGIME. 


Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  thro'  these  faint  smokes  curling  white ly, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's  smithy — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee  ? 


II. 


He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 

Where  they  are,  what  they  do :  they  believe  my  tears 

flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for  them  I — I  am  here. 


THE   LA  D  OR  A  TOR  ]  '. 


III. 


Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder, — I  am  not  in  haste  ! 
Better  sit  thus  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 
Than   £0   where   men   wait    me,   and   dance   at   the 


King's. 


IV. 


That  in  the  mortar — you  call  it  a  gum  ? 

Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come  ! 

And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 

Sure  to  taste  sweetly, — is  that  poison  too  ? 


v. 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 
What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures  ! 
To  carry  pure  death  in  an  ear-ring,  a  casket, 
A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket ! 

VI. 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give 
And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live  ! 
But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise  with  her  head 
And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should 
drop  dead  ! 

VII. 

Quick — is  it  finished  ?     The  color  's  too  grim  ! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim  ? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer  ! 


1 32  THE  LABORATORY. 


VIII. 

What  a  drop  !  She's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me  ! 
That  's  why  she  ensnared  him  :  this  never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, — say,  "  No  !  " 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

IX. 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered,  I  brought 
My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 
Could  I  keep  them  one-half  minute  fixed,  she  would 

fall 
Shrivelled  ;  she  fell  not  ;  yet  this  does  it  all  ! 

x. 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain  ; 
Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain  : 
Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace — 
He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face  ! 

XI. 

Is  it  done  ?     Take  my  mask  off  !     Nay,  be   not  mo- 
rose; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close  : 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  fee  ! 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me  ? 

XII. 

Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it — next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's  ! 


GOLD  HAIR.  -'■'>  133 


GOLD   HAIR: 

A    STORY    OF    PORNIC. 


Oh,  the  beautiful  girl,  too  white, 

Who  lived  at  Pornic  down  by  the  sea, 
Just  where  the  sea  and  the  Loire  unite  ! 

And  a  boasted  name  in  Brittany- 
She  bore,  which  I  will  not  write. 

11. 

Too  white,  for  the  flower  of  life  is  red  ; 

Her  flesh  was  the  soft  seraphic  screen 
Of  a  soul  that  is  meant  (her  parents  said) 

To  just  see  earth,  and  hardly  be  seen, 
And  blossom  in  heaven  instead. 

in. 

Yet  earth  saw  one  thing,  one  how  fair  ! 

One  grace  that  grew  to  its  full  on  earth  : 
Smiles  might  be  sparse  on  her  cheek  so  spare. 

And  her  waist  want  half  a  girdle's  girth, 
But  she  had  her  great  gold  hair. 

IV. 

Hair,  such  a  wonder  of  flix  and  floss, 

Freshness  and  fragrance — floods  of  it,  too  ! 

Gold,  did  I  say  ?     Nay,  gold  's  mere  dross  : 

Here,  Life  smiled,  "Think  what  I  meant  to  do  ! 

And  Love  sighed,  "  Fancy  my  loss !  " 


H 


GOLD   HAIR. 


V. 
So,  when  she  died,  it  was  scarce  more  strange 

Than  that,  when  some  delicate  evening  dies, 
And  you  follow  its  spent  sun's  pallid  range, 

There  's  a  shoot  of  color  startles  the  skies 
With  sudden,  violent  change, — 

VI. 

That,  while  the  breath  was  nearly  to  seek, 
As  they  put  the  little  cross  to  her  lips, 

She  changed  ;  a  spot  came  out  on  her  cheek, 
A  spark  from  her  eye  in  mid-eclipse, 

And  she  broke  forth,  "  I  must  speak  !  " 

VII. 

"  Not  my  hair  !  "  made  the  girl  her  moan — 

All  the  rest  is  gone  or  to  go  ; 
But  the  last,  last  grace,  my  all,  my  own, 

Let  it  stay  in  the  grave,  that  the  ghosts  may  know  ! 
Leave  my  poor  gold  hair  alone  !  " 

VIII. 

The  passion  thus  vented,  dead  lay  she  : 
Her  parents  sobbed  their  worst  on  that, 

All  friends  joined  in,  nor  observed  degree  : 
For  indeed  the  hair  was  to  wonder  at, 

As  it  spread — not  flowing  free, 

IX. 

But  curled  around  her  brow,  like  a  crown, 
And  coiled  beside  her  cheeks,  like  a  cap, 

And  calmed  about  her  neck — ay,  down 
To  her  breast,  pressed  flat,  without  a  gap 

F  the  gold,  it  reached  her  gown. 


GOLD  HAIR.  135 

X. 

All  kissed  that  face,  like  a  silver  wedge 

'Mid  the  yellow  wealth,  nor  disturbed  its  hair  : 

E'en  the  priest  allowed  death's  privilege, 
As  he  planted  the  crucifix  with  care 

On  her  breast,  'twixt  edge  and  edge. 

XI. 

And  thus  was  she  buried,  inviolate 

Of  body  and  soul,  in  the  very  space 
By  the  altar  ;  keeping  saintly  state 

In  Pornic  church,  for  her  pride  of  race, 
Pure  life  and  piteous  fate. 

XTI. 

And  in  after-time  would  your  fresh  tear  fall, 

Though  your  mouth  might  twitch  with  a  dubio,us 
smile, 

As  they  told  you  of  gold  both  robe  and  pall, 
How  she  prayed  them  leave  it  alone  a  while, 

So  it  never  was  touched  at  all. 

XIII. 

Years  flew  ;  this  legend  grew  at  last 
The  life  of  the  lady  ;  all  she  had  done, 

All  been,  in  the  memories  fading  fast 
Of  lover  and  friend,  was  summed  in  one 

Sentence  survivors  passed  : 

xiv. 
To  wit,  she  was  meant  for  heaven,  not  earth  ; 

Had  turned  an  angel  before  the  time  : 
Yet,  since  she  was  mortal,  in  such  dearth 

Of  frailty,  all  you  could  count  a  crime 
Was — she  knew  her  gold  hair's  worth. 


136  GOLD   HAIR. 

XV. 

At  little  pleasant  Pornic  church, 

It  chanced,  the  pavement  wanted  repair, 

Was  taken  to  pieces  :  left  in  the  lurch, 
A  certain  sacred  space  lay  bare, 

And  the  boys  began  research. 

XVI. 

'T  was  the  space  where  our  sires  would  lay  a  saint, 

A  benefactor, — a  bishop,  suppose, 
A  baron  with  armor-adornments  quaint, 

Dame  with  chased  ring  and  jewelled  rose, 
Things  sanctity  saves  from  taint  ; 

XVII. 

So  we  come  to  find  them  in  after-days 

When  the  corpse  is  presumed  to  have  done  with 
gauds 
Of  use  to  the  living,  in  many  ways  : 

For  the  boys  get  pelf,  and  the  town  applauds, 
And  the  church  deserves  the  praise. 

XVIII. 

They  grubbed  with  a  will :  and  at  length — O  cor 
Humanum,  pectoj-a  cceca,  and  the  rest ! — 

They  found — no  gaud  they  were  prying  for, 

No  ring,  no  rose,  but — who  would  have  guessed? — 

A  double  Louis-d'or  ! 

XIX. 

Here  was  a  case  for  the  priest  :  he  heard, 

Marked,  inwardly  digested,  laid 
Finger  on  nose,  smiled,  "  A  little  bird 

Chirps  in  my  ear  :"  then,  "  Bring  a  spade, 
Dig  deeper !  " — he  gave  the  word. 


GOLD   HAIR.  137 

XX. 

And  lo,  when  they  came  to  the  coffin-lid, 
Or  rotten  planks  which  composed  it  once, 

Why,  there  lay  the  girl's  skull  wedged  amid 
A  mint  of  money,  it  served  for  the  nonce 

To  hold  in  its  hair-heaps  hid  ! 

XXI. 

Hid  there  ?     Why  ?     Could  the  girl  be  wont 
(She  the  stainless  soul)  to  treasure  up 

Money,  earth's  trash  and  heaven's  affront  ? 
Had  a  spider  found  out  the  communion-cup, 

Was  a  toad  in  the  christening-font  ? 

XXII. 

Truth  is  truth  :  too  true  it  was. 

Gold  !  She  hoarded  and  hugged  it  first, 
Longed  for  it,  leaned  o'er  it,  loved  it — alas — 

Till  the  humor  grew  to  a  head  and  burst, 
And  she  cried,  at  the  final  pass, — 

XXIII. 

"  Talk  not  of  God,  my  heart  is  stone  ! 

Nor  lover  nor  friend — be  gold  for  both  ! 
Gold  I  lack  ;  and,  my  all,  my  own, 

It  shall  hide  in  my  hair.     I  scarce  die  loth 
If  they  let  my  hair  alone  ! " 

XXIV. 

Louis-d'ors,  some  six  times  five, 

And  duly  double,  every  piece. 
Now,  do  you  see  ?     With  the  priest  to  shrive, 

With  parents  preventing  her  soul's  release 
By  kisses  that  kept  alive, — 


3S 


GOLD   HAIR. 


XXV. 

With  heaven's  gold  gates  about  to  ope, 

With  friends'  praise,  gold-like,  lingering  still, 

An  instinct  had  bidden  the  girl's  hand  grope 

For  gold,  the  true  sort— "  Gold   in  heaven,  if   y< 
will  ; 

But  I  keep  earth's  too,  I  hope." 

xxvi. 
Enough  !     The  priest  took  the  grave's  grim  yield  : 

The  parents,  they  eyed  that  price  of  sin 
As  if  thirty  pieces  lay  revealed 

On  the  place  to  bury  strangers  in, 
The  hideous  Potter's  Field. 

XXVII. 

But  the  priest  bethought  him  :  "  '  Milk  that's  spilt 
— You  know  the  adage  !     Watch  and  pray  ! 

Saints  tumble  to  earth  with  so  slight  a  tilt  ! 
It  would  build  a  new  altar  ;  that,  we  may  !  " 

And  the  altar  therewith  was  built. 

XXVIII. 

Why  I  deliver  this  horrible  verse  ? 

As  the  text  of  a  sermon,  which  now  I  preach. 
Evil  or  good  may  be  better  or  worse 

In  the  human  heart,  but  the  mixture  of  each 
Is  a  marvel  and  a  curse. 

XXIX. 

The  candid  incline  to  surmise  of  late 

That  the  Christian  faith  may  be  false,  I  find  ; 

For  our  Essays-and-Reviews'  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind, 

And  Colenso's  words  have  weight  : 


THE   STATUE   AND    THE   BUST. 


139 


XXX. 


I  still,  to  suppose  it  true,  for  my  part, 
See  reasons  and  reasons  ;  this,  to  begin  : 

'T  is  the  faith  that  launched  point-blank  her  dart 
At  the  head  of  a  lie — taught  Original  Sin, 

The  Corruption  of  Man's  Heart. 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

There  's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased  ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand  ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "  The  Great  Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back — "Who  is  she?" 

— "  A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 


:  [o 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST. 


Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily- 
Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure — 
Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can  ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes  : 

The  past  was  asleep,  and  her  life  began. 

Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held,  that  self-same  night, 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 


(For  Via  Larga  is  three  parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite  ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son). 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 
Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude, 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued— 


THE   STATUE  AMD   THE  BUST.  141 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East, 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride — 
"  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied — 

"  If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise  ! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 


142  THE    STATUE   A  .YD    THE   BUST. 

"  'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 

And  I  save  my  soul — but  not  to-morrow" — 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 
I  must'  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know  ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so  ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing,  and  sleep  : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "  'T  was  a  very  funeral, 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface,  what'er  befall  ! 

"  What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers 


'& 


The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean  ! 


THE   STATUE   AND    THE  BUST.  143 

"  But,  alas  !  my  lady  leaves  the  South  ; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 

"  Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring  : 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here  !  " 

And  then  to  himself — "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king ! 

"  Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool — 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance  : 

"  For  I  ride — what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And,  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide  !  " 

So  said,  so  done  :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  wmere  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 


144  THE   STATUE   AXD   THE   BUST. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth : 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit,  in  winter's  dearth, 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose  : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth  : 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simply  policy  ;  better  wait  : 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate  ! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook  : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years ;  gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream  ; 


THE   STATUE  AND   THE  BUST.  145 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above  : 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove  ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass — 
"Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"  Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"  Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"  Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square  ! 

"  And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"  To  say,  'What  matters  it  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

10 


.6  THE   STATUE  AXD   THE   BUST. 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

"  Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face- 
Eyeing  ever,  with  earnest  eye 
And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 
Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by — ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence,  "  Youth— my  dream  escapes  ! 
Will  its  record  stay  !  "     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes— 
"  Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  finds  the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

"  John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"  In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft : 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 


THE   STATUE  AND   THE  BUST.  147 

"  While    the    mouth    and    the    brow    stay  brave    in 

bronze — 
Admire  and  say,  '  When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once !' 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So  !     While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  thro'  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  was  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime." — Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view ! 


148  LOVE  AMONG   THE  RUINS. 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf  ? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham  : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table  's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play  ! — is  my  principle. 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter,  our  lovers  staked,  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you  ?     De  fe,  fabula  ! 


LOVE   AMONG   THE    RUINS. 


Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles, 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 


LOVE  AMONG    THE  RUINS.  149 

Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince, 

Ages  since, 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

11. 

Now, — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 

in. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was  ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago  ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame  ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 


150  LOVE  AMONG    THE  RUINS. 

IV. 
Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

v. 
And  I  know — while  thus  the  quiet-colored  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breath- 
less, dumb 

Till  I  come. 

VI. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades 

Colonnades, 


TIME '  S  RE  VENGES.  1 5 1 

All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then, 

All  the  men  ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

VII. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns  ! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest ! 

Love  is  best. 


TIME'S  REVENGES. 

I  've  a  Friend,  over  the  sea  ; 

I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write  ; 

They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 

That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 

Because  you  do  n't  admire  my  books. 

He  does  himself  though, — and  if  some  vein 

Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 


152  TIME'S  REVENGES. 

To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 

Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 

Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 

Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 

To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 

And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my  face 

And  light  my  fire,  and  all  the  while, 

Bear  with  his  old  good-humored  smile 

That  I  told  him  "  Better  have  kept  away 

Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day, 

With,  worse  than  fever  throbs  and  shoots, 

The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 

I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 

As  that  St.  Paul's  is  striking  two. 

And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  .  woe  is  me  ! 

— Yes,  rather  should  see  him  than  not  see, 

If  lifting  a  hand  would  seat  him  there 

Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 

To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 

And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read 

Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 

The  pen  ;  this  garret 's  freezing  cold  ! 

And  I  've  a  Lady — there  he  wakes 

The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be  ! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint 

And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures  faint, 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame  yet, 


TIME'S  REVENGES. 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 

But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 

Rather  than  trample  under  mine 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends  ! 

I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best  crown, 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

— So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 

Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  ;  and  she 

—I  '11  tell  you, — calmly  would  decree 

That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 

If  that  would  compass  her  desire 

And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 

To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  heaven  ;  there  must  be  hell  ; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  earth  here — well ! 


154  WAR  J  KG. 

WARING. 
I. 


What  's  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip, 
Chose  land-travel  or  seafaring, 
Boots  and  chest  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town  ? 

ii. 
Who  'd  have  guessed  it  from  his  lip 
Or  his  brow's  accustomed  bearing, 
On  the  night  he  thus  took  ship 
Or  started  landward  ? — little  caring 
For  us,  it  seems,  who  supped  together 
(Friends  of  his  too,  I  remember) 
And  walked  home  thro'  the  merry  weather, 
The  snowiest  in  all  December. 
I  left  his  arm  that  night  myself 
For  wmat's-his-name's,  the  new  prose-poet 
Who  wrote  the  book  there  on  the  shelf — 
How,  forsooth,  was  I  to  know  it 
If  Waring  meant  to  glide  away 
Like  a  ghost  at  break  of  day  ? 
Never  looked  he'  half  so  gay  ! 

in. 
He  was  prouder  than  the  devil  : 
How  he  must  have  cursed  our  revel  ! 


& 


WARING.  155 

Ay,  and  many  other  meetings, 

Indoor  visits,  outdoor  greetings 

As  up  and  down  he  paced  this  London, 

With  no  work  done,  but  great  works  undone, 

Where  scarce  twenty  knew  his  name. 

Why  not,  then,  have  earlier  spoken, 

Written,  bustled  ?     Who  's  to  blame 

If  your  silence  kept  unbroken  ? 

"  True,  but  there  were  sundry  jottings, 

Stray-leaves,  fragments,  blurrs  and  blottings, 

Certain  first  steps  were  achieved 

Already  which — (is  that  your  meaning  ?) 

Had  well  borne  out  whoe'er  believed 

In  more  to  come  !  "     But  who  goes  gleaning 

Hedge-side  chance-blades,  while  full-sheaved 

Stand  cornfields  by  him  ?     Pride,  o'erweenins: 

Pride  alone,  puts  forth  such  claims 

O'er  the  day's  distinguished  names. 

IV. 

Meantime,  how  much  I  loved  him, 

I  find  out  now  I  've  lost  him. 

I  who  cared  not  if  I  moved  him, 

Who  could  so  carelessly  accost  him, 

Henceforth  never  shall  get  free 

Of  his  ghostly  company, 

His  eyes  that  just  a  little  wink 

As  deep  I  go  into  the  merit 

Of  this  and  that  distinguished  spirit — 

His  cheeks'  raised  color,  soon  to  sink, 

As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us  !) 

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 


56  WARING, 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic. 
Nay,  my  very  wrist  grows  warm 
With  his  dragging  weight  of  arm. 
E'en  so,  swimmingly  appears, 
Through  one's  after-supper  musings, 
Some  lost  lady  of  old  years 
With  her  beauteous  vain  endeavor 
And  goodness  unrepaid  as  ever  ; 
The  face,  accustomed  to  refusings, 
We,  puppies  that  we  were  .  .  .   Oh  never 
Surely,  nice  of  conscience,  scrupled 
Being  aught  like  false,  forsooth,  to  ? 
Telling  aught  but  honest  truth  to  ? 
What  a  sin,  had  we  centupled 
Its  possessor's  grace  and  sweetness  ! 
No  !  she  heard  in  its  completeness 
Truth,  for  truth  's  a  weighty  matter, 
And,  truth  at  issue,  we  can't  flatter ! 
Well,  't  is  done  with  ;  she  's  exempt 
From  damning  us  thro'  such  a  sally  ; 
And  so  she  glides,  as  down  a  valley, 
Taking  up  with  her  contempt, 
Past  our  reach  ;  and  in,  the  flowers 
Shut  her  unregarded  hours. 


Oh,  could  I  have  him  back  once  more, 

This  Waring,  but  one  half-day  more  ! 

Back,  with  the  quiet  face  of  yore, 

So  hungry  for  acknowledgment 

Like  mine !     I  'd  fool  him  to  his  bent. 

Feed,  should  not  he,  to  heart's  content  ? 

I  'd  say,  "  to  only  have  conceived, 

Planned  your  great  works,  apart  from  progress, 


WARING. 

Surpasses  little  works  achieved  ! " 

I  'd  lie  so,  I  should  be  believed. 

I  'd  make  such  havoc  of  the  claims 

Of  the  day's  distinguished  names 

To  feast  him  with,  as  feasts  an  ogress 

Her  feverish  sharp-toothed  gold-crowned  child ! 

Or  as  one  feasts  a  creature  rarely 

Captured  here,  unreconciled 

To  capture  ;  and  completely  gives 

Its  pettish  humors  license,  barely 

Requiring  that  it  lives. 

VI. 

Ichabod,  Ichabod, 

The  glory  is  departed  ! 

Travels  Waring  East  away  ? 

Who,  of  knowledge,  by  hearsay, 

Reports  a  man  upstarted 

Somewhere  as  a  god, 

Hordes  grown  European-hearted, 

Millions  of  the  wild  made  tame 

On  a  sudden  at  his  fame  ? 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 

Or  who  in  Moscow,  toward  the  Czar, 

With  the  demurest  of  footfalls 

Over  the  Kremlin's  pavement  bright 

With  serpentine  and  syenite, 

Steps,  with  five  other  Generals 

That  simultaneously  take  snuff, 

For  each  to  have  pretext  enough 

And  kerchiefwise  unfold  his  sash 

Which,  softness'  self,  is  yet  the  stuff 

To  hold  fast  where  a  steel  chain  snaps, 

And  leave  the  grand  white  neck  no  gash  ? 


i57 


5  WARING. 

Waring  in  Moscow,  to  those  rough 

Cold  northern  natures  borne  perhaps, 

Like  the  lambwhite  maiden  dear 

From  the  circle  of  mute  kings 

Unable  to  repress  the  tear, 

Each  as  his  sceptre  down  he  flings, 

To  Dian's  fame  at  Taurica, 

Where  now  a  captive  priestess,  she  alway 

Mingles  her  tender  grave  Hellenic  speech 

With  theirs,  tuned  to  the  hailstone-beaten  beach : 

As  pours  some  pigeon,  from  the  myrrhy  lands 

Rapt  by  the  whirlblast  to  fierce  Scythian  strands 

Where  breed  the  swallows,  her  melodious  cry 

Amid  their  barbarous  twitter ! 

In  Russia  ?     Never !     Spain  were  fitter  ! 

Ay,  most  likely  't  is  in  Spain 

That  we  and  Waring  meet  again 

Now,  while  he  turns  down  that  cool  narrow  lane 

Into  the  blackness,  out  of  grave  Madrid 

All  fire  and  shine,  abrupt  as  when  there  's  slid 

Its  stiff  gold  blazing  pall 

From  some  black  coffin-lid. 

Or,  best  of  all, 

I  love  to  think 

The  leaving  us  was  just  a  feint  ; 

Back  here  to  London  did  he  slink, 

And  now  works  on  without  a  wink 

Of  sleep,  and  we  are  on  the  brink 

Of  something  great  in  fresco-paint : 

Some  garret's  ceiling,  walls  and  floor, 

Up  and  down  and  o'er  and  o'er 

He  splashes,  as  none  splashed  before 

Since  great  Caldara  Polidore. 

Or  Music  means  this  land  of  ours 


WARING. 

Some  favor  yet,  to  pity  won 

By  Purcell  from  his  Rosy  Bowers, — 

"  Give  me  my  so-long  promised  son, 

Let  Waring  end  what  I  begun  !  " 

Then  down  he  creeps  and  out  he  steals, 

Only  when  the  night  conceals 

His  face  ;  in  Kent 't  is  cherry-time, 

Or  hops  are  picking  :  or  at  prime 

Of  March  he  wanders  as,  too  happy, 

Years  ago  when  he  was  young, 

Some  mild  eve  when  woods  grew  sappy 

And  the  early  moths  had  sprung 

To  life  from  many  a  trembling  sheath 

Woven  the  warm  boughs  beneath  ; 

While  small  birds  said  to  themselves 

What  should  soon  be  actual  song, 

And  young  gnats,  by  tens  and  twelves 

Made  as  if  they  were  the  throng 

That  crowd  around  and  carry  aloft 

The  sound  they  have  nursed,  so  sweet  and  pure, 

Out  of  a  myriad  noises  soft, 

Into  a  tone  that  can  endure 

Amid  the  noise  of  a  July  noon 

When  all  God's  creatures  crave  their  boon, 

All  at  once,  and  all  in  tune, 

And  get  it,  happy  as  Waring  then, 

Having  first  within  his  ken 

What  a  man  might  do  with  men  : 

And  far  too  glad,  in  the  even-glow, 

To  mix  with  the  world  he  meant  to  take 

Into  his  hand,  he  told  you,  so — 

And  out  of  it  his  world  to  make, 

To  contract  and  to  expand 

As  he  shut  or  oped  his  hand. 


i59 


lOo  WARING. 

Oh  Waring,  what 's  to  really  be  ? 
A  clear  stage  and  a  crowd  to  see  ! 
Some  Garrick,  say,  out  shall  not  he 
The  heart  of  Hamlet's  mystery  pluck  ? 
Or,  where  most  unclean  beasts  are  rife, 
Some  Junius— am  I  right  ?— shall  tuck 
His  sleeve,  and  forth  with  flaying-knife  ! 
Some  Chatterton  shall  have  the  luck 
Of  calling  Rowley  into  life  ! 
Some  one  shall  somehow  run  a  muck 
With  this  old  world,  for  want  of  strife 
Sound  asleep.     Contrive,  contrive 
To  rouse  us,  Waring  !     Who  's  alive  ? 
Our  men  scarce  seem  in  earnest  now. 
Distinguished  names  ! — but  't  is,  somehow, 
As  if  they  played  at  being  names 
Still  more  distinguished,  like  the  games 
Of  children.     Turn  our  sport  to  earnest 
With  a  visage  of  the  sternest ! 
Bring  the  real  times  back,  confessed 
Still  better  than  our  very  best  ! 


II. 


"When  I  last  saw  Waring  .  .   ." 
(How  all  turned  to  him  who  spoke  ! 
You  saw  Waring  ?     Truth  or  joke  ? 
In  land-travel  or  sea-faring  ?) 


"We  were  sailing  by  Triest 
Where  a  day  or  two  we  harbored 
A  sunset  was  in  the  West, 


WARING.  161 

When,  looking  over  the  vessel's  side, 

One  of  our  company  espied 

A  sudden  speck  to  larboard. 

And  as  a  sea-duck  flies  and  swims 

At  once,  so  came  the  light  craft  up, 

With  its  sole  lateen  sail  that  trims 

And  turns  (the  water  round  its  rims 

Dancing,  as  round  a  sinking  cup) 

And  by  us  like  a  fish  it  curled, 

And  drew  itself  up  close  beside, 

Its  great  sail  on  the  instant  furled, 

And  o'er  its  thwarts  a  shrill  voice  cried, 

(A  neck  as  bronzed  as  a  Lascar's) 

*  Buy  wine  of  us,  you  English  Brig  ? 

Or  fruit,  tobacco  and  cigars  ? 

A  pilot  for  you  to  Triest  ? 

Without  one,  look  you  ne'er  so  big, 

They'll  never  let  you  up  the  bay  ! 

We  natives  should  know  best.' 

I  turned,  and  'just  those  fellows'  way,' 

Our  captain  said,  i  The  'long-shore  thieves 

Are  laughing  at  us  in  their  sleeves.' 

in. 

"  In  truth,  the  boy  leaned  laughing  back  ; 
And  one,  half-hidden  by  his  side 
Under  the  furled  sail,  soon  I  spied, 
With  great  grass  hat  and  kerchief  black, 
Who  looked  up  with  his  kingly  throat, 
Said  somewhat,  while  the  other  shook 
His  hair  back  from  his  eyes  to  look 
Their  longest  at  us  ;  then  the  boat, 
I  know  not  how,  turned  sharply  round, 
Laying  her  whole  side  on  the  sea 
ii 


1 62  HOME    THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD. 

As  a  leaping  fish  does ;  from  the  lee 

Into  the  weather,  cut  somehow 

Her  sparkling  path  beneath  our  bow, 

And  so  went  off,  as  with  a  bound, 

Into  the  rosy  and  golden  half 

O'  the  sky,  to  overtake  the  sun 

And  reach  the  shore,  like  the  sea-calf 

Its  singing  cave  ;  yet  I  caught  one 

Glance  ere  away  the  boat  quite  passed, 

And  neither  time  nor  toil  could  mar 

Those  features  :  so  I  saw  the  last 

Of  Waring  !  " — You  ?     Oh,  never  star 

Was  lost  here  but  it  rose  afar  ! 

Look  East,  where  whole  new  thousands  are  ! 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar  ? 


HOME    THOUGHTS,    FROM    ABROAD. 


Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning, 

unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  ! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops— at  the  bent  spray's  edge— 


THE   ITALIAN  IN   ENGLAND.  163 

That 's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rupture  ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

And  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  ! 


THE    ITALIAN    IN    ENGLAND. 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 

From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 

And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 

Her  blood-hounds  thro'  the  country-side 

Breathed  hot  and  instant  on  my  trace. — 

I  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 

Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 

Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have  plucked 

The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 

Bright  creeping  thro'  the  moss  they  love  : 

— How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was  lost  ! 

Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 

The  country  in  my  very  sight  ; 

And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 

The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 

With  signal  fires  ;  well,  there  I  lay 

Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 

Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress, 

Thinking  on  Metternich  our  friend, 

And  Charles's  miserable  end, 

And  much  beside,  two  days  ;  the  third, 

Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 

The  peasants  from  the  village  go 


1 64  THE   ITALIA N  IX  ENGLAND. 

To  work  among  the  maize  ;  you  know, 
With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 
Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string, 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine  ; 
These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line, 
And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 
The  peasants  from  the  village,  too  ; 
For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To  help,  I  knew  ;  when  these  had  passed, 
I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 
Taking  the  chance  :  she  did  not  start, 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground  : 
A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt  ; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 
A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that  ;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast  : 
Then  I  drew  breath  ;  they  disappeared  : 
It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts ;  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy  ; 
I  had  devised  a  certain  talc 
Which,  when  't  was  told  her,  could  not  fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth  ; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 


THE   ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND.  165 

But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 

Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 

Our  Italy's  own  attitude 

In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood, 

Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 

To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm — 

At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 

"  I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 

They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 

The  Austrians  over  us  :  the  State 

Will  give  you  gold— oh,  gold  so  much  !— 

If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 

And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 

If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe. 

Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink, 

And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 

And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 

To  Padua,  which  you  '11  reach  at  night 

Before  the  duomo  shuts  ;  go  in, 

And  wait  till  Tenebrse  begin  ; 

Walk  to  the  third  confessional, 

Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall, 

And  kneeling  whisper,  Whence  comes  peace? 

Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease  ; 

And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 

From  Christ  and  Freedom  ;  what  concerns 

The  cause  of  Peace  ?  —for  answer,  slip 

My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip  ; 

Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 

Our  mother  service — I,  the  son, 

As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land  !  " 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her  stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes  : 


L66  THE    ITALIAN  J X  ENGLAND, 

I  was  no  surer  of  sun-rise 

Than  of  her  coming  :  we  conferred 

Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 

She  had  a  lover — stout  and  tall, 

She  said — then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 

"  He  could  do  much"— as  if  some  doubt 

Entered  her  heart, — then,  passing  out, 

"  She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 

Had  other  thoughts  ;  herself  she  knew  :  " 

And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 

After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued 

Another  path  ;  at  last  arrived 

The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 

To  furnish  me  :  she  brought  the  news. 

For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 

But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 

Upon  her  head—"  This  faith  was  shown 

To  Italy,  our  mother  ;  she 

Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 

She  followed  down  to  the  sea  shore  ; 

I  left  and  never  saw  her  more. 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning— much  less  wished  for— ought 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die  ! 
I  never  was  in  love  ;  and  since 
Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now  convince 
My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend  ? 
However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 
Real  wishes  on  myself— say,  three— 
I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be. 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 


THE   ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND.  167 

In  blood  thro'  these  two  hands.     And  next, 

— Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed — 

Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 

Should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 

Under  his  new  employers.     Last 

— Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish  ?     For  fast 

Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 

If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length 

My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 

They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared  ! 

My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 

—  Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say  ; 

And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 

To  praise  me  so — perhaps  induced 

More  than  one  early  step  of  mine — 

Are  turning  wise  :  while  some  opine 

"  Freedom  grows  license,"  some  suspect 

"  Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect 

They  always  said,  such  premature 

Beginnings  never  could  endure  ! 

So,  with  a  sullen  "All 's  for  best," 

The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 

I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 

This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 

Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 

And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 

With  the  calm  smile  ;  some  little  farm 

She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt  :  what  harm 

If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench, 

And  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 

Fantastically  in  the  dust, 

Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes — just 

Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 

And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 


1 68  THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 

For  each  of  them.     I'd  talk  this  out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 
Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way. 

So  much  for  idle  wishing— how 
It  steals  the  time  !     To  business  now. 


THE    ENGLISHMAN    IN    ITALY. 

PIANO    DI    SORRENTO. 

FortO,  Fortu,  my  beloved  one,  sit  here  by  my  side, 
On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet !      I  was  sure,  if 

I  tried, 
I  could  make  you  laugh  spite    of   Scirocco.     Now, 

open  your  eyes, 
Let   me  keep  you   amused,   till  he  vanish    in   black 

from  the  skies, 
With  telling  my    memories   over,    as   you  tell  your 

beads  ; 
All  the  Plain  saw  me  gather,  I  garland — the  Mowers 

or  the  weeds. 

Time  for  rain  !  for  your  long  hot  dry  Autumn  had 

networked  with  brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches,  marked 

like  a  quail's  crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of,    whose 

heads, — specked  with  white 
Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back,  as  I  told  you 

last  night, — 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  169 

Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper.      Red-ripe  as 

could  be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting  in  halves 

on  the  tree. 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  llintstone,  or  in 

the  thick  dust 
On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side,  wher- 
ever could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold  hardy  rock-ilower  its  yel- 
low face  up, 
For  the  prize  were  great   butterflies  fighting,  some 

five  for  one  cup. 
So,  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning,  what  change 

was  in  store, 
By  the  quick    rustle-down  of  the    quail-nets    which 

woke  me  before 
I  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast  with  a  bough  and 

a  stone, 
And  look  through  the  twisted  dead  vine-twigs,  sole 

lattice  that's  known. 
Quick  and  sharp  rang  the  rings  down  the  net-poles, 

while,  busy  beneath, 
Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them,  the  rain 

in  their  teeth. 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs,  where  split  figs 

lay  drying, 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover  :  nor  use  seemed 

in  trying 
To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing,  for,  under  the 

cliff, 
Fierce  the  black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind-rock. 

No  seeing  our  skiff 
Arrive     about      noon     from     Amalfi  !— our     fisher 

arrive, 


i;o  THE    ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 

And   pitch  down  his  basket  before  us,  all  trembling 

alive, 
With  pink  and  gray  jellies,  your  sea-fruit  ;  you  touch 

the  strange  lumps, 
And  mouths  gape   there,   eyes   open,  all  manner  of 

horns  and  of  humps, 
Which  only   the   fisher   looks  grave  at,  while   round 

him  like  imps, 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked  and  brown  as 

his  shrimps  ; 
Himself  too  as  bare  to  the   middle — you   see  round 

his  neck 
The  string  and   its  brass  coin  suspended,  that  saves 

him  from  wreck. 
But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno  :  so  back,  to  a 

man, 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards 

grape-harvest  began. 
In  the  vat,  halfway  up  in  our  house-side,  like  blood 

the  juice  spins, 
While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing   till 

breathless  he  grins 
Dead-beaten  in  effort  on   effort  to  keep  the  grapes 

under, 
Since  still,  when  he  seems  all  but  master,   in  pours 

the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going  with  basket 

on  shoulder, 
And  eyes  shut  against   the  rain's  driving  ;  your  girls 

that  are  older, — 
For  under   the    hedges    of   aloe,  and   where,    on    its 

bed 
Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple  lies  pulpy 

and  red, 


THE   ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  171 

All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling  their  laps 

with  the  snails 
Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather, — your  best 

of  regales, 
As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow,  when,  sup- 
ping in  state, 
We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen,  three 

over  one  plate) 
With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow  in  slippery  ropes, 
And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices,  that  color  of 

popes. 
Meantime,  see  the  grape  bunch  they've  brought  you  : 

the  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe  which  the 

wasp  to  your  lips 
Still    follows   with    fretful    persistence.     Nay,    taste, 

while  awake, 
This   half   of  a  curd-white  smooth    cheese-ball    that 

peels,  flake  by  flake, 
Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter  :  next,  sip 

this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper,  a  leaf 

of  the  vine ; 
And  end  with  the  prickly  pear's  red  flesh  that  leaves 

thro'  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco  is  loose  ! 

Hark,  the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives  which, 
thick  in  one's  track, 

Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them,  tho' 
not  yet  half  black  ! 

How  the  old  twisted  olive  trunks  shudder,  the  med- 
lars let  fall 


C72 


THE   ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 


Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees  snap 


off,  figs  and  a 


For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest !  no  refuge, 

but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  and  my  shoulder,  and  listen  or 

sleep. 


Oh  how  will  your  country  show  next  week,   when 

all  the  vine-boughs 
Have   been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture  the 

mules  and  the  cows  ? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains  ;  your  brother, 

my  guide, 
Soon  left  me,   to  feast  on   the  myrtles  that  offered, 

each  side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy,  and  luscious, — or  strip 

from  the  sorbs 
A  treasure,   or,  rosy  and  wondrous,  those  hairy  gold 

orbs  ! 
But  my  mule  picked  his   sure  sober  path   out,  just 

stopping  to  neigh 
When  he  recognized  down  in  the  valley  his  mates  on 

their  way 
With  the  faggots  and  barrels  of  water.     And  soon  we 

emerged 
From  the  plain  where  the  woods  could  scarce  follow; 

and  still,  as  we  urged 
Our  way,  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us.      Up,   up 

still  we  trudged, 
Though  the  wild  path  grew  wilder  each  instant,  and 

place  was  e'en  grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms  and  piles  of  loose  stones  like 

the  loose  broken  teeth 


THE   ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  173 

Of  some  monster  which  climbed  there  to  die,  from 

the  ocean  beneath — 
Place  was  grudged  to  the  silver-gray  fume-weed  that 

clung  to  the  path, 
And    dark    rosemary   ever    a-dying,    that,    'spite    the 

wind's  wrath 
So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward  :  and  lentisks 

as  staunch 
To  the  stone  where  they  root  and  bear  berries  :  and 

.     .     .     what  shows  a  branch 
Coral-colored,  transparent,  with  circlets  of  pale  sea- 

green  leaves  ; 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution  of  gleaners 

o'er  sheaves. 
Still,    foot  after  foot  like    a  lady,    still,   round   after 

round, 
He  climbed  to  the  top   of  Calvano  :    and  God's  own 

profound 
Was   above   me,    and  round  me  the   mountains,  and 

under,  the  sea, 
And  within   me  my  heart  to  bear  witness  what  was 

and  shall  be. 
Oh,  heaven  and  the  terrible  crystal  !    no  rampart  ex- 
cludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be    lived  in  the  blue  soli- 
tudes. 
Oh,  those  mountains,  their  infinite  movement  !   still 

moving  with  you  ; 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them  thrusts 

into  view 
To  observe  the  intruder  ;   you  see  it,  if  quickly  you 

turn 
And,  before  they  escape  you,   surprise  them.     They 

grudge  you  should  learn 


1 74  THE   ENGLISHMAN  I.V  ITALY. 

How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over  and  love 

(they  pretend) 
— Cower  beneath  them,  the  black  sea-pine  crouches, 

the  wild  fruit-trees  bend, 
E'en   the   myrtle-leaves  curl,  shrink  and   shut :  all   is 

silent  and  grave  : 
'T  is  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty, — how  fair  !  but  a 

slave. 
So,    I   turned   to   the   sea  ;  and   there    slumbered,   as 

greenly  as  ever, 
Those  isles  of  the  siren,  yourGalli.     No  ages  can  sever 
The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister  to  join  them, — half- 
way 
On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses — no  farther  to- 
day ! 
Tho'    the    small     one,    just     launched    in    the    wave, 

watches  breast-high  and  steady 
From  under  the  rock  her  bold  sister,  swum  halfway 

already. 
Fortu,  shall  we  sail  there  together,  and  see,  from  the 

sides, 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  new  haunts  where 

the  siren  abides  ? 
Shall  we  sail   round  and   round  them,  close  over  the 

rocks,  tho'  unseen, 
That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water  to  glorious  green  ? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter   to   splinter,  reach  land, 

and  explore, 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret  with 

never  a  door, 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards  ?     Then,  stand 

there  and  hear 
The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us  what  life  is,  so 

clear  ? 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  175 

— The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses  when,  ages  ago, 
He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret,  I  hear  and  I 
know. 


Ah,  see  !   The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano.    He  strik 
the  great  gloom 


es 


And  flutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit  in  airy  gold 
fume. 

All  is  over.  Look  out,  see,  the  gipsy,  our  tinker  and 
smith, 

Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge,  and  down- 
squatted  forthwith 

To  his  hammering  under  the  wall  there  !  One  eye 
keeps  aloof 

The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting  his  jews'-harp  to 
proof, 

While  the  other,  thro'  locks  of  curled  wire,  is  watch- 
ing how  sleek 

Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfall.  Chew, 
abbot's  own  cheek  ! 

All  is  over.  Wake  up  and  come  out  now,  and  down 
let  us  go, 

And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order  at  church  for 
the  show 

Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening.  To-mor- 
row 's  the  Feast 

Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means  of  Virgins  the 
least  : 

As  you  '11  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse  which  (all 
nature,  no  art) 

The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks,  was  get- 
ting by  heart. 

Not  a  pillar  nor  post  but  is  dizened  with  red  and  blue 
papers  ; 


176  THE   ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 

All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar  a-blaze 
with  long  tapers. 

But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold  rigged  glo- 
rious to  hold 

All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers  and  trumpet- 
ers bold 

Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber  :  who,  when  the 
priest  *s  hoarse, 

Will  strike  us  up  something  that  's  brisk  for  the 
feast's  second  course. 

And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image  be  carried  in 
pomp 

Thro'  the  plain,  while,  in  gallant  procession,  the 
priests  mean  to  stomp. 

All  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles  with  gun- 
powder stopped, 

Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  re-enters,  religiously 
popped. 

And  at  night  from  the  crest  of  Calvano  great  bonfires 
will  hang  : 

On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus,  and  more 
poppers  bang. 

At  all  events,  come — to  the  garden,  as  far  as  the  wall  ; 

See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster,  till  out  there 
shall  fall 

A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers ! 

— "Such  trifles  !  "  you  say  ? 
Fortu,  in   my  England   at   home,  men   meet  gravely 

to-day 
And    debate,   if   abolishing    Corn-laws    be    righteous 

and  wise  ! 
— If  't  were  proper,  Scirrocco  should  vanish  in  black 

from  the  skies! 


&P  AT  A    VILLA— DOWN  I  AT  THE  CITY.         177 


UP   AT   A  VILLA— DOWN    IN   THE   CITY. 

(as  distinguished  by  an  italian  person  of 
Quality.) 


Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to 
spare, 

The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city- 
square  ; 

Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  win- 
dow there  ! 


Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at 

least ! 
There,  the  whole   day  long,   one's  life   is  a  perfect 

feast ; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more 

than  a  beast. 

in. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a 

bull 
Just  on  a  mountain  edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's 

skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
■ — I  scratch   my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair  's 

turned  wool. 


178         UP  AT  A    VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

IV. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city— the  square  with  the  houses! 
Why  ? 

They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there  's  some- 
thing to  take  the  eye  ! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry  ; 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters, 
who  hurries  by  ; 

Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when 
the  sun  gets  high  ; 

And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted 
properly. 


What  of  a  villa  ?     Though  winter  be  over  in  March 

by  rights, 
'T  is  May  perhaps   ere   the  snow  shall  have  withered 

well  off  the  heights  : 
You  Ye  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the 

oxen  steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray 

olive  trees. 

VI. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?     You  Ye  summer  all 

at  once  ; 
In  a  day  he   leaps   compete  with  a   few  strong  April 

suns. 
'Mid   the    sharp    short    emerald   wheat,    scarce    risen 

three  fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great 

red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to 

pick  and  sell. 


UP  AT  A    VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY 


179 


VII. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square  ?     There  's  a  fountain  to 

spout  and  splash  ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs  ;  in   the   shine   such 

foam-bows  flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and 

paddle  and  pash 
Round   the   lady  atop  in   her  conch — fifty  gazers  do 

not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her 

waist  in  a  sort  of  sash. 

VIII. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though 

you  linger, 
Except    yon    cypress    that    points    like    death's    lean 

lifted  forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when. they  mix  i'  the  corn 

and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem 

a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala 

is  shrill, 
And  the   bees   keep  their  tiresome  whine   round   the 

resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare   you   the   months  of 

the  fever  and  chill. 

IX. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed 
church-bells  begin  : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rat- 
tles in  : 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never 
a  pin. 


1S0         UP  AT  A    VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

By  and   by  there  's  the   travelling   doctor  gives  pills, 

lets  blood,  draws  teeth  ; 
Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  be- 
neath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play, 

piping  hot ! 
And   a  notice   how,  only   this   morning,  three   liberal 

thieves  were  shot. 
Above  it,  behold  the   Archbishop's   most  fatherly  of 

rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little 

new  law  of  the  Duke's  ! 
Or  a  sonnet  with   flowery  marge,   to   the   Reverend 

Don  So-and-so 
Who   is   Dante,  Boccaccio,    Petrarca,  St.  Jerome   and 

Cicero, 
"And  moreover,"    (the   sonnet  goes   rhyming,)  "the 

skirts  of  St.  Paul  has  reached, 
Having   preached   us   those    six    Lent-lecturcs    more 

unctuous  than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession  !  our  Lady 

borne  smiling  and  smart, 
With    a    pink    gauze    gown    all    spangles,  and    seven 

swords  stuck  in  her  heart ! 
Bang-whang-whang  goes   the   drum,  tootlc-tc-tootlr   the 

fife; 
No   keeping   one's   haunches  still  :  it  's   the  greatest 

pleasure  in  life. 


But   bless   you,  it  's   dear — it  's   dear  !  fowls,   wine,  at 

double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil 

pays  passing  the  gate 


PICT  OR  I G  NOT  US.  181 

It  's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me, 

not  the  city  ! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers  :  but   still — ah,  the 

pity,  the  pity  ! 
Look,  two  and  two   go  the  priests,  then   the  monks 

with  cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding 

the  yellow  candles  ; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross 

with  handles, 
And  the   Duke's   guard  brings  up   the    rear,  for  the 

better  prevention  of  scandals  : 
Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the 

fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleas- 
ure in  life  ! 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS. 

Florence,   15 — . 

I  could  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth's 

Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up  !     No  bar 
Stayed    me — ah,    thought   which    saddens    while    it 
soothes  ! 

— Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God  :  nor  would  my  flesh  have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant  ;  or  around 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  licence  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 


iS2  PJCTOR  IGNOTUS. 

And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue  ; 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place  ; 
Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a  castle  braved, — 
O  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved  ? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well !) 

Of  going — T,  in  each  new  picture, — forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 
Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should  greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet  ! — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man  my  friend, 

The  thought  grew  frightful,  't  was  so  wildly  dear ! 
But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites  ! 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was,  before  : 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.     .     .     Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that  begun 


P1CT0R  I G  NOT  US.  183 

To  press  on  me  and  judge  me  ?     Though  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me    .    .    .    enough. 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give, 
Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 

And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of, — "This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate, 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less  ! " 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.      If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard, — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand  apart : 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 

'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures  !  surely,  gently  die  ! 

Oh  youth,  men  praise  so, — holds  their  praise  its 
worth  ? 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry  ? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth  ? 


1 84  FRA    LJPPO  LIP  PI. 


FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI. 


I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks,  what's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  monk  ! 
What,  'tis  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar  ? 
The  Carmine 's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it  up, 
Do, — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse, 
Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company! 
Aha,  you  know  your  betters  ?     Then,  you'll  take 
Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 
Three  streets  off — he 's  a  certain     .     .     .     how  d' ye 

call  ? 
Master — a     .     .     .     Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 
F  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh  !     You  were 

best! 
Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged, 
How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe  ! 
But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner,  nor  discredit  you  : 
Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 
And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net  ? 
He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 
Just  such  a  face  !     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I  'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 


FRA    LIPTO   LIP  PI.  185 

Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 

Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 

(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside  !) 

And  all  's  come  square  again.     I  'd  like  his  face — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 

With  the  pike  and  lantern, — for  the  slave  that  holds 

John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 

With  one  hand  ("Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped  ! 

It 's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 

A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see  ! 

Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 

What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down, 

You  know  them,  and  they  take  you  ?  like  enough  ! 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye — 

'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let 's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 

Here 's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up 

bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 
And  I  've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night — 
Ouf  !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song, — 
Floiver  o'  the  broom, 
Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 
Flower  0'  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since  ? 
Floiver  0'  the  thyme — and  so  on.     Round  they  went. 
Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 
Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits   by  moonlight, — three 

slim  shapes, 


1 86  FRA   LIPPO  LIP  PL 

And  a  face  that  looked   up     .     .     .     zooks,  sir,  flesh 

and  blood, 
That 's  all  I  'm  made  of !     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture — a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder !     Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Lawrence,  hail  fellow,  well  met, — 
Flower  o  the  rose, 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows  ? 
And  so,  as  I  was  stealing  back  again, 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see  ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head — 
Mine  's    shaved — a    monk,    you    say — the   sting  's    in 

that  ! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 
Mum  's  the  word  naturally  ;  but  a  monk  ! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us,  now  ! 
I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 
The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 
Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 
(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger,  as  I  knew) 
And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 
By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there, 


FRA    LIPPO   LI  PPL  187 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month  : 

"  So,  boy,  you  're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat  father 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  't  was  refection-time, — 

"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will     you     renounce"     .     .     .      "the     mouthful     of 

bread  ? "  thought  I  ; 
By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me  ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to — all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'T  was  not  for  nothing — the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside  ! 
"  Let  's  see  what  the  urchin  's  fit  for  " — that  came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do !     They  tried  me  with  their  books  : 
Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste  ! 
Flower  0  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  Is,  "A  mo  "  I  love  ! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 
Or  holla  fur  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped, — 
How  say  I  ? — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 


1 88  PR  A    LI  PPO   LI  PPL 

He  learns  the  look  of  tilings,  and  none  the  less 

For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use  : 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge, 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked 

black. 
"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "  turn  him  out,  d'  ye  say  ? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  ! " 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank   you  !  my   head   being   crammed,    the  walls  a 

blank 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white," 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean  :  then,  folks  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends, — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 


FRA    LIPPO   IJPPI.  189 

After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 

Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 

(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at  eve 

On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf, 

Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 

(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was  gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "  'Tis  ask  and  have  ; 

Choose,  for  more 's  ready  !" — laid  the  ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 

Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 

Being  simple  bodies, — "  That 's  the  very  man  ! 

Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog  ! 

That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 

To  care  about  his  asthma  :  it's  the  life  !  " 

But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked  ; 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say  : 

The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.    "  How  ?  what 's  here  ? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 

Faces,  arms,  legs  and  bodies  like  the  true 

As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's  game  ! 

Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there  's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 

Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men — 

Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .   no,  it's  not  .  . 

It's  vapor  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe — 

(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 

It 's  .   .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it's  the  soul  ! 

Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 

Here  's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 

That  sets  us  praising, — why  not  stop  with  him  ? 


I  

190  fra  urro  J.IPPL 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not  ? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms  ! 

Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time  ! 

Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 

She's  just  my  niece  .   .  .   Herodias,  I  would  say, — 

Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off  I 

Have  it  all  out  ! "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask  ? 

A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 

And  can't  fare  worse  !      Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow  's  simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  nought. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order  ?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .   patron-saint — is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 

Sorrow  or  joy  ?  won't  beauty  go  with  these  ? 

Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold  ? 

Or  say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 

(T  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  nought  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents : 

That 's  somewhat :  and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you  have 

missed, 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
<l  Rub  all  out  ■  "    Well,  well,  there  's  my  life,  in  short. 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I've  broken  bounds: 


FRA    LI PPO  L1PPI.  igi 

You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 

And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 

I  'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please — 

Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house ! 

Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front— 

Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 

To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 

Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 

The  heads  shake  still — "  It'  s  art's  decline,  my  son ! 

You  're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old ; 

Brother  Angelico  's  the  man,  you  '11  find  ; 

Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer : 

Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the  third  !  " 

Flower  0  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .   manners,  and  I'll  stick  to  mine  ! 

I'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they  must  know  ! 

Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to  know, 

They  with  their  Latin  ?     So,  I  swallow  my  rage, 

Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 

To  please  them — sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don't ; 

For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to  come 

A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints — 

A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world — 

{Flower  o1  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each  !  ) 

And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 

The  world  and  life  's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 

In  pure  rage  !     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 


i92  FRA    LIPPO  LIP  PI. 

What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no — 

May  they  or  may  n't  they  ?  all  I  want 's  the  thing 

Settled  for  ever  one  way.     As  it  is, 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself  : 

You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 

You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 

For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught — 

I  always  see  the  garden,  and  God  there 

A-making  man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson  learned, 

The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 

I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterward. 

You  understand  me  :  I  'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star  's  about  to  shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We  've  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop  : 
His  name  is  Guidi — he  '11  not  mind  the  monks — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk — 
He  picks  my  practice  up — he  '11  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 
I  know  what  's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  ! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike  ; 
However,  you  're  my  man,  you  've  seen  the  world 
— The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises, — and  God  made  it  all! 
— For  what  ?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What 's  it  all  about  ? 


FRA    LIPPO  LIP  PI.  193 

To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  ! — you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say, — paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 
God's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 
Are  here  already  ;  nature  is  complete  : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her — (which  you  can't) 
There  's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 
For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we  're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see  ; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted— better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that  ; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?     A  bit  of  chalk, 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !     How  much 

more 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh,  oh, 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves  !     This  woVld  's  no  blot  for  us 
Nor  blank  ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 
"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  !  " 
Strikes  in  the  Prior  :  "  when  your  meaning  's  plain 
It  does  not  say  to  folks — remember  matins, 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday  !  "     Why,  for  this 
What  need  of  art  at  all  ?     A  skull  and  bones, 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what 's  best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 
I  painted  a  St.  Laurence  six  months  since 


ig4  FKA    LITPO  LIP  PI. 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style  : 

"  How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold's  down  ?" 

I  ask  a  brother  :   "  Hugely,"  he  returns — 

"  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But 's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 

With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage  : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !  "     Hang  the  fools  ! 

— That  is — you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine  ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows !  don't  misreport  me,  now 
It  's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself  : 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me  :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.     .     .     There  's  for  you !     Give  me  six  months,  then 

go,  see 
Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's !     Bless  the  nuns  ' 
They  want  a  casto'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two — 
St.  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
St.  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 


FRA    LIPPO  LI  PPT.  195 

The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day, 

And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 

The  man  of  Uz,  (and  Us  without  the  z, 

Painters  who  need  his  patience.)     Well,  all  these 

Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect,  ' 

As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 

Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !  I  ! — 

Mazed,  motionless  and  moon-struck — I  'm  the  man ! 

Back  I  shrink — what  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake, 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company ! 

Where  's  a  hole,  where  's  a  corner  for  escape  ? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm — "  Not  so  fast ! " 

— Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "  nay — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though  he  's  none  of  you  !     Could  Saint  John  there 

draw — 
His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting  brush  ? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  per  fecit  opus  !  "     So,  all  smile — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 
Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you  're  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 
Till,  wholly  Unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband  !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 
Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .   Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 
And  so  all  's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 


ANDREA    DEL   SARTO. 


A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence  ! 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  good  bye  :  no  lights,  no  lights  ? 
The  street  's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back, 
Don't  fear  me  !    There  's  the  gray  beginning.    Zooks  ! 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO. 

(Called  "The  Faultless  Painter.") 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia  !  bear  with  me  for  once  : 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You' turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 

I  '11  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 

And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 

When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 

Oh,  I  '11  content  him, — but  to-morrow,  Love  ! 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 

This  evening  more  than  usual  :  and  it  seems 

As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine,  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither  ;  you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  : 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO.  197 

It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet — 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks — no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile  ?  why,  there  's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That  's  gone,  you  know) — but  I,  at  every  point  ; 

My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top  ; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside  ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead  ; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter  :  let  it  lie  ! 

This  chamber,  for  example — turn  your  head — 

All  that 's  behind  us  !     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak  : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  : 


i9S  ANDREA    DEL   SARTO. 

Behold  Madonna  ! — I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps  :  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week  ; 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past  : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

— Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  le?ive  this  town, 

Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less ! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia  :  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their   works    drop    groundward,    but    themselves,    I 

know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that 's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 


ANDREA    DEL   SARTO.  199 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken  ;  what  of  that  ?  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered  ;  what  of  that  ? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 
ft  Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what 's  a  heaven  for  ?  U  All  is  silver-gray, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art  :  the  worse  ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain  ; 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  !  "     No 
doubt. 

Yonder 's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

(T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

Above  and  through  his  art— for  it  gives  way  ; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put— and  there  again— 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak  :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it  : 
But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch- 
out of  me,  out  of  me  !     And  wherefore  out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 
More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 


2oo  ANDREA   DEL    SARTO. 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo  ! 

Rafael  is  waiting  :  up  to  God,  ail  three  ! " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems  : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self  ; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not  ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 

Yet  the  will 's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power— 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 

But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak  !     That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 


ANDREA    DEL   SARTO.  201 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know — 

'T  is  done  and  past ;  't  was  right,  my  instinct  said ; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray  : 

And  I  'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 

You  called  me  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there  ;  then,  if 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 

"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that  ; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife — " 

Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...   I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 


2D2  ANDREA    DEL    SARTO. 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  !" 

To  Rafael's  !— And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here— quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he  's  Rafael  !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo  ? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost, — 

Is,  whether  you  're— not  grateful— but  more  pleased 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !     Another  smile  ? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now  ;  there  's  a  star  ; 

Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  love, — come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :   oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 

That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 

Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me  ?     Those  loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work  's  my  ware,  and  what 's  it  worth  ? 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO.  203 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  your's  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them— that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand— there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs  ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What 's  better  and  what 's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff  ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?     Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  Cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  ! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died  : 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try  ! 
No  doubt  there  's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 


204  THE   BISHOP    ORDERS  HIS   TOMB. 

In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance- 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine  !     So— still  they  overcome 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  !     Go,  my  Love. 


THE    BISHOP    ORDERS    HIS   TOMB   AT 
SAINT   PRAXED'S   CHURCH. 

Rome,   15 — . 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity ! 

Draw  round  my  bed  :  is  Anselm  keeping  back  ? 

Nephews — sons  mine     ...     ah  God,  I  know  not ! 

Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 
What  's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world  's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it  ?     As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 
"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ? "     Peace,  peace  seems  all 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace  ; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know  : 
— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care  ; 


THE  BISHOP    ORDERS  HIS   TOMB.  205 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same ! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam 's  sure  to  lurk : 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands  ; 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

— Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 

Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him  !     True  peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earned  the  prize  ! 

Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

— What  then  ?     So   much  was   saved  if  aught  were 

missed! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go  dig 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find     .     .     .     Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I !    .     .     . 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  figleaves  soft, 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 
Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast     .     .     . 
Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 
That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst ! 


2  s5  THE   BISHOP    ORDERS  HIS   TOMB. 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years: 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 

Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?     Black — 

'T  was  ever  antique-black  I  meant  !     How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables     .     .     .     but  1  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?     Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at ! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then  ! 

'T  is  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas ! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs  ? 

— That 's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  masters  ?     Ulpian  serves  his  need  ! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke  ! 


THE   BISHOP    ORDERS  HIS    TOMB.  207 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 
Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point., 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work  : 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

— Aha,  elucescebat,  quoth  our  friend  ? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best  ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons  !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas  !     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

II  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?"     There,  leave  me,  there  ! 
For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death  :  ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it !     Stone  ! — 
Gritstone,  a-crumble  !     Clammy  squares  which  sweat 
As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 
And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world  ! 


208  A    TOCCATA    OF   GALUPPI'S. 

Well  go  !     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row  :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 

Old  Gandolf  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 


A   TOCCATA   OF   GALUPPI'S. 


Oh,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  ! 

I    can  hardly  misconceive  you  ;  it  would  prove  me 

deaf  and  blind  ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  't  is  with  such  a 

heavy  mind  ! 


Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here  "s  all  the 
good  it  brings. 

What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  mer- 
chants were  the  kings, 

Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the 
sea  with  rings  ? 

in. 

Ay,  because  the  sea  's  the  street  there  ;  and  't  is  arched 

by     .     .     .     what  you  call 
.     .     .     Shylock's   bridge  with    houses   on  it,  where 

they  kept  the  carnival  : 
[  was  never  out  of  England— it 's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 


A    TOCCATA    OF   GALUPPPS.  209 

IV. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea 

was  warm  in  May  ? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to 

midday, 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow, 

do  you  say  ? 


v. 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so 

red, — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower 

on  its  bed, 
O'er    the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a   man 

might  base  his  head  ? 


VI. 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them  :  they  'd  break  talk 

off  and  afford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he,  to  finger 

on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and    played    Toccatas,  stately  at    the 

clavichord  ? 


VII. 

What  ?     Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  dimin- 
ished, sigh  on  sigh, 

Told    them     something?     Those    suspensions,  those 
solutions — "  Must  we  die  ?  " 

Those  commiserating  sevenths — "  Life   might    last! 
we  can  but  try  !  " 
14 


2io  A    TOCCATA    OF   GALUPPI'S. 

VIII. 

"  Were  you  happy  ?  "— "  Yes."—"  And  are  you  still 
as  happy  ?  " — "  Yes.     And  you  ?  " 

— "  Then,  more  kisses  !  " — "  Did  /stop  them,  when  a 
million  seemed  so  few  ? " 

Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  ans- 
wered to  ! 

IX. 

So,  an   octave  struck   the  answer.     Oh,  they   praised 

you,  I  dare  say  ! 
"  Brave    Galuppi  !    that   was  music  !   good   alike     at 

grave  and  gay  ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master 

play!" 

x. 

Then  they  left   you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in   due 

time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,    some  with 

deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death  stepped    tacitly,   and   took  them   where  they 

never  see  the  sun. 


XI. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand 

nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret   wrung   from  nature's 

close  reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  thro' 

every  nerve. 


A    TOCCATA    OF   GALUPPPS.  211 

XII. 

Yes,  you,   like   a  ghostly  cricket,   creaking  where   a 

house  was  burned : 
"  Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent 

what  Venice  earned. 
The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can 

be  discerned. 


XIII. 

"  Yours  for  instance  :  you  know  physics,  something 

of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your  pastime  ;    souls  shall  rise  in 

their  degree  ; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you  '11  not  die,  it 

cannot  be ! 


XIV. 

"  As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom 

and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly 

were  the  crop  : 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had 

to  stop  ? 

XV. 

"  Dust  and  ashes  !  "  So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the 
heart  to  scold. 

Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what 's  be- 
come of  all  the  gold 

Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?  I  feel  chilly 
and  grown  old. 


212        HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY. 

I  only  knew  one  poet  in  my  life  : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did  : 
The   cloak,   that   somewhat   shone    and   showed   the 

threads, 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 
He  walked,  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face  : 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 
That  leads  no  whither ;  now,  they  breathed  themselves 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time. 
You  'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 
Against  the  single  window  spared  some  house 
Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work, — 
Or  else  surprise  the  ferrule  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks 
Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 
He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 
The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 


ITOVV  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY.         213 

And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 

And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 

He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 

If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw  ; 

If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note  ; 

Yet  stared  at  nobody, — you  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbor's  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy, 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew ! 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then  went  home, 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  his  bedroom  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile  !  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of     .     .  well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease, 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little,  such  a  brow 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under ! — clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  o'  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut  and  colored  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising  fate  ? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared 

And  young  C.  got  his  mistress, — was  't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains  ? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favorites  manifold, 

And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month  ; 

Our  city  gets  new  governors  at  whiles, — 


214 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 


But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear, 

Notified,  to  this  man  about  the  streets, 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?     Frowned  our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard — "  Beseech  me  not ! 

Too  far  above  my  people, — beneath  me  ! 

I  set  the  watch, — how  should  the  people  know  ? 

Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in  mind  !  " 

Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  two  ? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least — 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate  ! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by  the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise  ! 
The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 
(Jacynth,  you're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  cheese 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 
Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.     Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  he 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  he  was, 
Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times ; 
"St — st,"  he'd  whisper,  "the  Corregidor  !  " 
I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 


P  ROT  US.  215 

Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turn, 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue  ! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys  ; 
We  were  in  error ;  that  was  not  the  man. 

I  'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die, 
And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret  sides, 
And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 
With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 
Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 
Thro'  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 
Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 
In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in  mud, 
Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust, — 
And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once  ! 
No  further  show  or  need  of  that  old  coat, 
You  are  sure,  for  one  thing  !     Bless  us,  all  the  while 
How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I  ! 
A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that. 
Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse, — could  you  ? 
Let 's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 


PROTUS. 

Among  these  latter  busts  we  count  by  scores, 

Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 

Each  with  his  bay-leaf  fillet,  loose-thonged  vest, 

Loric  and  low-browed  Gorgon  on  the  breast, — 

One  loves  a  baby  face,  with  violets  there, 

Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  the  hair, 

As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could  bear. 


2 1 6  P  ROT  US. 

Now  read  here.     "  Protus  ends  a  period 

Of  empery  beginning  with  a  god  ; 

Born  in  the  porphyry  chamber  at  Byzant, 

Queens  by  his  cradle,  proud  and  ministrant : 

And  if  he  quickened  breath  there,  't  would  like  fire 

Pantingly  through  the  dim  vast  realm  transpire. 

A  fame  that  he  was  missing,  spread  afar  : 

The  world,  from  its  four  corners,  rose  in  war, 

Till  he  was  borne  out  on  a  balcony 

To  pacify  the  world  when  it  should  see. 

The  captains  ranged  before  him,  one,  his  hand 

Made  baby  points  at,  gained  the  chief  command. 

And  day  by  day  more  beautiful  he  grew 

In  shape,  all  said,  in  feature  and  in  hue, 

While  young  Greek  sculptors  gazing  on  the  child 

Became,  with  old  Greek  sculpture,  reconciled. 

Already  sages  labored  to  condense 

In  easy  tomes  a  life's  experience  : 

And  artists  took  grave  counsel  to  impart 

In  one  breath  and  one  hand-sweep,  all  their  art, 

And  make  his  graces  prompt  as  blossoming 

Of  plentifully  watered  palms  in  spring : 

Since  well  beseems  it,  whoso  mounts  the  throne, 

For  beauty,  knowledge,  strength,  should  stand  alone, 

And  mortals  love  the  letters  of  his  name." 

— Stop  !     Have   you   turned   two    pages  ?      Still   the 

same. 
New  reign,  same  date.     The  scribe  goes  on  to  say 
How  that  same  year,  on  such  a  month  and  day, 
"  John  the  Pannonian,  groundedly  believed 
A  blacksmith's  bastard,  whose  hard  hand  reprieved 
The  Empire  from  its  fate  the  year  before, — 
Came,  had  a  mind  to  take  the  crown,  and  wore 


MASTER  HUGUES   OF  SAXE-GOTHA.  : 

The  same  for  six  years,  (during  which  the  Huns 

Kept  off  their  fingers  from  us)  till  his  sons 

Put  something  in  his  liquor  " — and  so  forth. 

Then  a  new  reign.     Stay — "  Take  at  its  just  worth 

(Subjoins  an  annotator)  "What  I  give 

As  hearsay.     Some  think,  John  let  Protus  live 

And  slip  away.     'T  is  said,  he  reached  man's  age 

At  some  blind  northern  court ;  made,  first  a  page, 

Then  tutor  to  the  children  ;  last,  of  use 

About  the  hunting  stables.     I  deduce 

He  wrote  the  little  tract  '  On  worming  dogs,' 

Whereof  the  name  in  sundry  catalogues 

Is  extant  yet.     A  Protus  of  the  race 

Is  rumored  to  have  died  a  monk  in  Thrace, — 

And,  if  the  same,  he  reached  senility." 


Here 's  John  the  Smith's  rough-hammered  head.   Great 

eye, 
Gross  jaw  and  griped  lips  do  what  granite  can 
To  give  you  the  crown-grasper.     What  a  man ! 


MASTER   HUGUES   OF   SAXE-GOTHA. 


Hist,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft ! 

Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Hugues  ! 
Answer  the  question  I  've  put  you  so  oft : 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues  ? 
See,  we  're  alone  in  the  loft, — - 


2  ib  MASTER  ITUGUES   OF  S  AXE-GOTH  A. 

II. 
I,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Hugues,  the  composer  of  note, 
Dead  though,  and  done  with,  this  many  a  year  : 

Let 's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to  quote, 
Make  the  world  prick  up  its  ear ! 

in. 

See,  the  church  empties  apace  : 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights. 
Hallo  there,  sacristan  !     Five  minutes'  grace  ! 

Here  's  a  crank  pedal  wants  setting  to  rights, 
Balks  one  of  holding  the  base. 

IV. 

See,  our  huge  houses  of  the  sounds, 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids  the  last  loiterer  back  to  his  bounds  ! 

— O  you  may  challenge  them,  not  a  response 
Get  the  church-saints  on  their  rounds  ! 


(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall  doubt  ? 

— March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 
Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  transept  about, 

Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and  spire, 
Put  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout — 

VI. 

Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks  rust, 

Rub  the  church-plate,  darn  the  sacrament-lace, 
Clear  the  desk-velvet  of  dust.) 


Hi  ASTER  HUGUES    OF  SAXE-GOTHA.  219 

VII. 

Here  's  your  book,  younger  folks  shelve  ! 

Played  I  not  off-hand  and  runningly, 
Just  now,  your  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve? 

Here  's  what    should    strike,  could  one  handle  it 
cunningly  : 
Help  the  axe,  give  it  a  helve  ! 

VIII. 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest,  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up  and  surveyed, 

O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest  of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade. 

IX. 

Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak, 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each  cheek, 

Like  two  .great  breves,  as  they  wrote  them  of  yore, 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak  ! 

x. 

Sure  you  said — "  Good,  the  mere  notes  ! 

Still,  couldst  thou  take  my  intent, 
Know  what  procured  me  our  Company's  votes — 

A  master  were  lauded  and  sciolists  shent, 
Parted  the  sheep  from  the  goats  !  " 

XI. 

Well,  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch ! 

Quick,  ere  my  candle's  a  snuff 
— Burnt,  do  you  see  ?  to  its  uttermost  inch — 

I  believe  in  you,  but  that  's  not  enough  : 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch  ! 


22o  MASTER  HUGUES   OF  SAXE-GOTIIA. 

XII. 
First  you  deliver  your  phrase 

— Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 
Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much  praise — 

Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer  needs  be  : 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways. 

XIII. 

Straight  must  a  Third  interpose, 

Volunteer  needlessly  help  ; 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in  his  nose, 

So  the  cry  's  open,  the  kennel 's  a-yelp, 
Argument 's  hot  to  the  close. 

XIV. 

One  dissertates,  he  is  candid ; 

Two  must  discept, — has  distinguished  ; 
Three  helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet  man  did ; 

Four   protests  ;    Five   makes  a   dart  at   the  thing 
wished  : 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied. 

xv. 
One  says  his  say  with  a  difference  ; 

More  of  expounding,  explaining  ! 
All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse  and  vociferance  ; 

NowT  there  's  a  truce,  all 's  subdued,  self-restraining ; 
Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiffer  hence. 

XVI. 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive  ; 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant  ; 
Three  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive  ; 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  strepitant : 
Five     .     .     .     O  Danaides,  O  Sieve ! 


MASTER  HUGUES   OF  SAXE-GOTHA.  221 

XVII. 
Now,  they  ply  axes,  and  crowbars  ; 

Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's 

Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.     To  what  issue  ? 
Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars  ? 

XVIII. 

Est  fug  a,  volvitur  rota. 

On  we  drift :  where  looms  the  dim  port  ? 
One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contribute  their  quota ; 

Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import — 
Show  it  us  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha  ! 

XIX. 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 

Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 
All 's  like     .     .     .     it 's  like     ...     for  an  instance 
I  'm  trying     .     .     . 

There !     See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying  ! 

xx. 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 

Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 
Till  we  exclaim — "  But  where  's  music,  the  dickens  ? 

Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider-web  strengthen^ 
— Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens  ?  " 

XXI. 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous  : 

Prove  me  such  censure  unfounded  ! 
Seems  it  surprising  a  lover  grows  jealous — 

Hopes 't  was  for  something,  his  organ  pipes  sounded. 
Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows  ? 


222  MASTER  IIUGUES   OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

XXII. 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life  ? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife  ? 

XXIII. 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature — 

Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legislature — 

God's  gold  just  shining  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  man's  usurpature. 

XXIV. 

So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland  ; 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye  :  not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  through  our  comments  and  glozes. 

xxv. 

Ah  but  traditions,  inventions, 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage) 
So  many  men  with  such  various  intentions, 

Down  the  past  ages,  must  know  more  than  this  age  ! 
Leave  we  the  web  its  dimensions ! 

XXVI. 

Who  thinks  Hugues  wrote  for  the  deaf, 

Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labor  ? 
Better  submit ;  try  again  ;  what 's  the  clef  ? 

'Faith,  't  is  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for  tabor — 
Four  flats,  the  minor  in  F. 


AST    VOGLER.  223 

XXVII. 
Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger  : 

Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose  it  ? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger, 

Truth  's  golden  o'er  us  although  we  refuse  it — 
Nature,  thro'  cobwebs  we  string  her. 

XXVIII. 

Hugues  !     I  advise  me  a  poena 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena ! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full-organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina. 

XXIX. 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I  'm  right  there, 

.  .  .  Lo  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket ! 
Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light  there ! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket. 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  unawares, 
Sweeping  the  church  up  for  first  morning-prayers, 
And  find  a  poor  devil  has  ended  his  cares 
At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-runged  rat-riddled  stairs  ? 

Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket  ? 


,  ABT   VOGLER. 

(after  he  has  been  extemporizing  upon  the  musi- 
cal  INSTRUMENT    OF   HIS   INVENTION.) 

I. 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music 
I  build, 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their 
work, 


224 


ABT   VOGLEK. 


Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when 
Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that 
lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each   from    the   other   heaven-high,  hell- 
deep  removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  inef- 
fable Name, 
And  pile  him   a  palace  straight,   to  pleasure  the 
princess  he  loved ! 

ii. 

Would  it   might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building 
of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  impor- 
tuned to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now 
and  now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master 
his  praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge 
down  to  hell, 
Burrow  awhile   and  build,  broad   on   the  roots  of 
things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my 
palace  well, 
Founded   it,   fearless  of  flame,  flat   on   the   nether 
springs. 

in. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excel- 
lent minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another   and   yet   another,  one  crowd  but  with 
many  a  crest, 


AST    VOGLER. 


225 


Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as 
glass, 
Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each   his  place   to  the 
rest  : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When    a    great     illumination     surprises    a    festal 
night — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space 
to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of 
my  soul  was  in  sight 

IV. 

In  sight  ?     Not  half  !  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to 
match  man's  birth, 
Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I  ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  dowm,  made  eifort 
to  reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in   my  passion,  to 
scale  the  sky  : 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt 
with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found,  but  fixed  its  wan- 
dering star  ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did  not  pale 
nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more 
near  nor  far. 

v. 

Nay  more  ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the 
glare  and  glow, 
Presences  plain  in   the   place  ;  or,  fresh  from   the 
Protoplast, 
il__ 


226  AST   VOGLER. 

Furnished  for  ages   to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind 
should  blow, 
Lured   now  to  begin  and   live,  in  a  house  to   their 
liking  at  last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through 
the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world 
worth  their  new  : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was,  as  it  shall 
be  anon  ; 
And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both  ?  for  I  was 
made  perfect  too. 

VI. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish 
of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed 
visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted 
the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so 
wonder-worth. 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still  effect  pro- 
ceeds from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the 
tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and    poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist-list  en- 
rolled : — 

VII. 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that 
can, 
Existent  behind  all  laws  :  that  made  them,  and,  lo, 
they  are ! 


ABT   VOGLER.  227 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed 
to  man, 
That  out  of  three   sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth 
sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well  :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is 
nought  ; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is 
said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !  I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 
And,   there !     Ye  have   heard  and  seen  :    consider 
and  bow  the  head  ! 

VIII. 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared  ; 
Gone  !  and  the  good  tears   start,  the   praises  that 
come  too  slow  ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he 
feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was 
to  go. 
Never  to  be  again !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 
As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this  your  com- 
fort to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my 
mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God  :  ay, 
what  was,  shall  be. 

IX. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable 
Name  ? 
Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with 
hands ! 


228  ABT   VOGLER. 

What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever 
the  same? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy 
power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !     What  was,  shall 
live  as  before  ; 
The    evil   is   null,    is    nought,    is   silence    implying 
sound  ; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much 
good  more  ; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;   in  the   heaven,  a 
perfect  round. 

x. 

All  we   have   willed   or  hoped   or  dreamed   of  good, 
shall  exist  ; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself  ;  no  beauty,  nor  good, 
nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the 
melodist, 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth 
too  hard, 
The  passion  that   left   the  ground   to  lose   itself   in 
the  sky 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard ; 
Enough   that  he   heard  it   once :    we  shall  hear   it 
by-and-by. 

XI. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 
For  the  fulness  of  the   days  ?     Have  we  withered 
or  agonized  ? 


TWO   IN  THE    CAMPAGNA.  229 

Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing 
might  issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed    the   discords   in,    but   that    harmony 
should  be  prized  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal 
and  woe  : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear  ; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome ;  't  is  we  musi- 
cians know. 

XII. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 
Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt   it   into   a  ninth,   and  I   stand   on  alien 
ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the   heights  I   rolled  from   into 
the  deep ; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting- 
place  is  found, 
The  C  Major  of  this   life  :    so,    now   I   will  try  to 
sleep. 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

1. 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May? 


23Q  TWO   IN  THE    CAMPAGNA. 

II. 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

in. 

Help  me  to  hold  it !     First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

IV. 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal  :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope, 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 

v. 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

VI. 

Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  plav, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 
Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 

While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 


TWO   IN  THE    CAMPAGNA.  231 

VII. 
How  say  you  ?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above ! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

VIII. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?     What  the  core 

O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 

IX. 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

x. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

XL 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 
Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 
Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 


232  "DE    GUSTIBUS-" 

XII. 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  \ 
Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again ! 

The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern — 
Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  hearts  that  vearn. 


DE   GUSTIBUS— " 


Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they ! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  ! 

II. 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 


THE    GUARDIAN-ANGEL.  233 

Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And  one  sharp  tree — 't  is  a  cypress — stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough,  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  for  ever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 
And  says  there  's  news  to-day — the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling  : 
— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 
Italy,  my  Italy  ! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  ! 


THE   GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

A    PICTURE    AT    FANO. 
I. 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  mo  \ 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 


234  THE    GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

And  time  come,  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

II. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze. 

— And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door. 

in. 
I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  T  know, 
For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God  !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 
Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread  ? 

IV. 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 

v. 
How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired  ! 
I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 


THE    GUARDIAN-ANGEL.  235 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 

0  world,  as  God  has  made  it !     All  is  beauty  : 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is  duty, 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 

VI. 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend  !)— that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently, — with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

VII. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 
— My  angel  with  me  too  :  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent), 

VIII. 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong — 

1  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend  ? 
How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


236  EVELYN  HOPE. 


EVELYN    HOPE. 


Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

11. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

in. 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside  ? 


E  VEL  YN  HOPE.  237 

IV. 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

v. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes  ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 

VII. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  ; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile, 


238  MEMORABILIA. 

And  the  red  young  mouth,   and   the   hair's  young 
gold. 
So  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


MEMORABILIA. 


Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  ! 

11. 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after  ; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

in. 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  oi  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about  : 

IV. 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


APPARENT  FAILURE.  239 


APPARENT    FAILURE. 

"We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." 

Paris  Newspaper. 

I. 

No,  for  I  '11  save  it !     Seven  years  since, 

I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a  day 
To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince  ; 

Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way  : 
Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 

I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortschakoff, 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 
So  sauntered  till — what  met  my  eyes  ? 

11. 
Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue  ! 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned  : 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 

Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 
One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case  ; 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered, — stalked, 
Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked 
Let  them  !     No  Briton  's  to  be  baulked  ! 

in. 

First  came  the  silent  gazers  ;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we  're  thankful  for  ; 

Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 
The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 

Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 


240  APPARENT  FAILURE. 

So  killed  themselves  :  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin  's  atoned. 


IV. 

Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that ! 

The  reverence  struck  me  ;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch  :  each  had  his  berth, 

His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast, 
Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best. 


v. 

How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy  ? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart  ? 
You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller  !     Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You  've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed  ? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclench  your  fist  ! 

VI. 

And  this — why,  he  was  red  in  vain. 
Or  black, — poor  fellow  that  is  blue  ! 

What  fancy  was  it,  turned  your  brain  ? 
Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you  ! 


PROSPICE.  241 

Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust ! 

VII. 

It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad  ; 

It 's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce  : 
It 's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched  ; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst 


PROSPICE. 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe  ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle  *s  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so— one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last .' 
16 


242      CiriLDE  R  OLA  ND  TO  THE  DA  RK  TO  J VER  C,  1  ME. 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
Oh  thou  soul  of  my  soul  !  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


CHILDE    ROLAND   TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 
CAME." 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  "Lear.") 


My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

ii. 
What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff  ? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road  ?     I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 


CH1LDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME.      243 

III. 

If  at  his  council  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed  :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

IV. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 
What  with   my   search   drawn  out   thro'  years,  my 

hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring, — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

v. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath, 
Freelier  outside,  ("  since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 
"And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can  amend  ; ") 

VI. 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves  : 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  render  love  and  stay. 


244      CITILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME. 

VII. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "  The  Band  " — to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit  ? 


VIII. 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

IX. 

For  mark  !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 
O'er  the  safe  road,  't  was  gone  ;  gray  plain  all  round 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on  ;  nought  else  remained  to  do. 


So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature  ;  nothing  throve  : 
For  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove  ! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You  'd  think  ;  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure  trove. 


CIIILDE  R  OLA  ND  TO  THE  DA  RK  TO  JVER  CA  ME.      245 

XL 

No  !  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.    "  See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"  It  nothing  skills  :  I  cannot  help  my  case  : 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this  place, 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

XII. 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 

Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped  ;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What   made   those  holes    and 
rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  baulk 
All  hope  of  greenness  ?  't  is  a  brute  must  walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

XIII. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 

In  leprosy  ;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 
One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there  : 

Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud  r. 

XIV. 

Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 

With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped  neck  a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane  ; 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe  ; 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  ; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 


246      ClflLDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME. 

XV. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterward— the  soldier's  art  : 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights. 

XVI. 

Not  it !  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 

Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas,  one  night's  disgrace  ! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

XVII. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honor — there  he  stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first.    - 
What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he  durst. 

Good— but  the  scene  shifts— faugh  !  what  hangman 
hands 

Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?     His  own  bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst  ! 

XVIII. 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that  ; 

Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again  ! 

No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat  ? 
I  asked :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came    to  arrest    my    thoughts  and   change  their 
train. 


CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TO  WER  CA ME.      247 

XIX. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms  ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes. 

xx. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful !     All  along, 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it ; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng  : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit. 

XXL 

Which,  while  I  forded,— good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard  ! 

— It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

XXIL 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage  ! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash  ?     Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 


248      C /TILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME. 

XXIII. 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 

What  penned   them  there,  with  all    the   plain    to 
choose  ? 

No  foot-print  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 

Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 


XXIV. 

And  more  than  that — a  furlong  on — why,  there  ! 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel — that  harrow  fit  to  reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?  with  all  the  air 
Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

XXV. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with  ;  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 
Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes !)  within  a  rood — 

Bog,  clay,  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth. 

XXVI. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  colored  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil 's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils  ; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 


CHILD E  ROLA ATD  TO  THE  DA RK  TO  WER  CA ME.      249 

XXVII. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end  : 

Nought  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  nought 
To  point  my  footstep  further !     At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 
That    brushed   my   cap — perchance    the   guide    I 
sought. 

XXVIII. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains — with  such  name  to  grace 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me, — solve  it,  you  ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

XXIX. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 
Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts — you  're  inside  the  den. 

xxx. 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 

This  was  the  place  !  those  two  hills  on  the  right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight ; 

While  to  the   left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain     .     .     . 
Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 

After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight ! 


250      CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME. 
XXXI. 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself  ? 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

XXXII. 

Not  see  ?  because  of  night  perhaps  ? — why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that !   before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft  : 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay, — 

"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature — to  the  heft !  " 

XXXIII. 

Not  hear  ?  when  noise  was  everywhere  !  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost !   one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 

XXXIV. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill-sides,  met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture  !    in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 

And  blew  "  CJiilde  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came  /  ' 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  251 


A   GRAMMARIAN'S    FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY    AFTER    THE  REVIVAL  OF  LEARNING    IN    EUROPE. 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  in  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow  : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row  ! 
That 's  the  appropriate  country  ;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels  ; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies  ;  wind  we  up  the  heights  ! 

Wait  ye  the  warning  ? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's  : 

He  's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 


252  A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd  !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft 

Safe  from  the  weather ! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 
Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow  ? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "  New  measures,  other  feet  anon  ! 

My  dance  is  finished  ? " 
No,  that  's  the  world's  way  ;  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city  !) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity  ; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping  : 
"What   's   in  the   scroll,"   quoth   he,    "thou   keepest 
furled  ? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give  !  " — So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page  : 

Learned,  we  found  him. 

Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain  : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"  Up  with  the  curtain  !  " 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment  ! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still  there  's  the  comment. 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  253 

Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I  'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give  ! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 

(Here 's  the  town  gate  reached ;  there 's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus  !) 
That  before  living  he  'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning  : 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "  But  time  escapes  ! 

Live  now  or  never  !  " 
He  said,  ' '  What 's  time  ?  Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes ! 

Man  has  Forever." 

Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped  his  head  : 

Calculus  racked  him  : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead  : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"  Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest!  " — not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled ! 
Step  two  a-breast,  the  way  winds  narrowly !) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 


254  A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great  ?  did  not  he  throw  on  God 

(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant  ? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure  : 
"  Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"    He  answered  "Yes! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  ! " 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred  's  soon  hit  : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar; 


CLE  ON. 


255 


Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife  : 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  HotVs  business — let  it  be  ! — 

Properly  based  Oitn — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  Dey 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here  's  the  platform,  here  's  the  proper  place  : 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here  's  the  top-peak  ;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there  : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there  ? 
Here — here  's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds 
form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go  !     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  : 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him— still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


CLEON. 

"As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said  " — 

Cleon  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 

And   laugh  their   pride   when    the    light   wave    lisps 

"Greece  ") — 
To  Protus  in  his  Tyranny  :  much  health  ! 


256  CLEON. 

They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now  : 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift  ;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee  ; 
And  one  white  she-slave,  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves,  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves) 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea-wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 

Well-counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence  ! 
For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act 
Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 
Thy  recognition  of  the  use  of  life  : 
Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy  tower, — 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, 
Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work,  'mid  good  acclaim, 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect, — 
Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake  : 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed, 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  East  : 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 


cle  on:  257 

To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 
Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words,  and  describe  thy  royal  face — 
Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most, 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard  :  in  one  short  life 
I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine,  and  also  mine  the  little  chant 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  net. 
The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare, 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine  ; 
The  Pcecile,  o'er-storied  its  whole  length, 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is  mine  too. 
I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before  ; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 
Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 
And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 
For  music, — why,  I  have  combined  the  moods, 
Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine  ; 
Thus  much  the  people  know  and  recognize, 
Throughout  our  seventeen  islands.     Marvel  not ! 
We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater  mind 
Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite, 
Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple  way, 
To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once, 
One  mind-point  and  no  other  at  a  time, — 
Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us 
With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age, 
17 


258  CLE  ON. 

Great  in  his  way — not  ours,  nor  meant  for  ours. 

And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know  : 

For,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth, 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here, 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive, 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 

Asa  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts, 

But  each  part  having  reference  to  all, — 

How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 

Endure  effacement  by  another  part  ? 

Was  the  thing  done  ? — then,  what 's  to  do  again  ? 

See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 

Suppose  the  artist  made  a  perfect  rhomb, 

And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid — 

He  did  not  overlay  them,  superimpose 

The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 

But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 

Making  at  last  a  picture  ;  there  it  lies. 

So  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made, 

The  portions  of  mankind  ;  and  after,  so, 

Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise  ? 

Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men, — 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labor  ends. 

Now  mark  me  !  those  divine  men  of  old  time 

Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 

The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty  ; 

And  where  they    reached,  who  can    do    more    than 

reach  ? 
It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 
At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere, 
And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 
In  due  succession  :  but  the  finer  air 
Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 


CLE  ON:  259 

Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 

The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere, 

Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did  ; 

Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 

Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 

And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 

Up  to  the  visible  height — and  after,  void  ; 

Not  knowing  air's  more  hidden  properties. 

And  thus  our  soul,  misknovvn,  cries  out  to  Zeus 

To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life  : 

Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow  ? 

Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out, 

That  he  or  other  god  descended  here 

And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 

What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown 

Piecemeal  or  in  succession ;  showed,  I  say, 

The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 

Of  all  his  children'from  the  birth  of  time, 

His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 

I  now  go  on  to  image, — might  we  hear 

The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each, 

Show  where  the  labor  lay  and  where  the  ease, 

And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent  everywhere  ! 

This  is  a  dream  : — but  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 

That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs, 

Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  powers. 

The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are  richer  far 

Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock  ; 

The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe  ; 

The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet ; 

The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers  ; 

That  young  and  tender  crescent  moon,  thy  slave, 

Sleeping  upon  her  robe  as  if  on  clouds, 

Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 


26o  CLE  OX. 

What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates? 

I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer,  no — 

Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no— nor  carved 

And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his  friend  : 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point. 

But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy 

With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 

Who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  arts. 

Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all  ? 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger;  I  have  dashed 

Rose  blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large  : 

I  stand  myself.      Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is  !  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate  ? 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand :  what  then? 

I  pass  too  surely :  let  at  least  truth  stay  ! 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me,  as  I  declare,  O  king, 
My  works  in  all  these  varicolored  kinds, 
So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 
I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life  ? 
Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closeth  up, 
I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand  : 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost  thyself 
The  fortunate  of  men  ?     "  For  "  (writest  thou) 
"  Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I  leave  nought. 
Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall  sing, 


CLE  ON.  261 

The  pictures  men  shall  study ;  while  my  life, 
Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy, 
Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 
Is  lost  indeed  ;  since,  what  survives  myself  ? 
The  brazen  statue  to  o'erlook  my  grave, 
Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
And  that — some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 
Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps 
To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 
I  go  then  :  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go  !" 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows  ? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 
Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time  ? 
If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  nay  perceived, 
Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  couldst  have  looked 
On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird, 
Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the  stage — 
Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 
The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 
Conceding  which, — had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee 
"Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this, 
Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done  ?" 
Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "  Ay,  by  making  each 
Grow  conscious  in  himself — by  that  alone. 
All  's  perfect  else  :  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 
The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims 
And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts,  the  birds  take  flight, 
Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go — 
And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life,  is  put, 


262  CLE  OX. 

Like  fire  from  off  thy  finger,  into  each, 

So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 

But  't  is  pure  fire,  and  they  mere  matter  are  : 

It  has  them,  not  they  it ;  and  so  I  choose 

For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 

(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme), 

That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both, 

A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 

Which  intro  active,  made  to  supervise 

And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 

And  so  be  happy."     Man  might  live  at  first 

The  animal  life  :  but  is  there  nothing  more  ? 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives  ;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 

The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  become. 

Thus  man,  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best. 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said  : 
"  Let  progress  end  at  once, — man  make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense  !  " 
In  man  there  's  failure,  only  since  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  man's  life, 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's  head. 
This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul, 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to  ; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.     But  alas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there  ! 


CLE  ON.  263 

For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('t  is  no  dream — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there 's  a  world  of  capability 
For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us, 
Inviting  us;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all, 
And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "Take  no  jot  more 
Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to  look  abroad  ! 
Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 
Deduction  to  it."     We  struggle,  fain  to  enlarge 
Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 
Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oil  to  life, 
Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness  :  no, 
It  skills  not  !  life  's  inadequate  to  joy, 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 
Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-bow 
Thin  from  her  tube  ;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 
What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 
From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up, 
And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same  ? 
The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 
Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange— what  boots 
To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could  ? 
She  cannot  lift  beyond  her  first  thin  thread  : 
And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 
While  he  sees  God's.     Is  it  for  Zeus  to  boast, 
"  See  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  despair- 
That  I  may  be  still  happier— for  thy  use  !" 
If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  lord, 
As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing  :  't  is  not  so — 
Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness  ? 
Still,  no.     If  care — where  is  the  sign  ?  I  ask, 
And  get  no  answer,  and  agree  in  sum, 
O  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement, 


264  CLE  OX. 

Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 
Most  progress  is  most  failure  :  thou  sayest  well. 

The  last  point  now.     Thou  dost  except  a  case — 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 
With  artist-gifts — to  such  a  man  as  I 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed  ; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 
What  ?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 
(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine) 
With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 
And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living  ? — Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king  ? 
Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise,  can  act- 
Is  this  as  though  I  acted  ?  if  I  paint, 
Carve  the  young  Phoebus,  am  I  therefore  young  ? 
Methinks  I  'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 
The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art! 
Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 
How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more  : 
But,  knowing  nought,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 
Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles  there, 
Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 
I  can  write  love-odes  :  thy  fair  slave  's  an  ode. 
I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 
For  being  beloved  :  she  turns  to  that  young  man, 
The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 
I  know  the  joy  of  kingship  :  well,  thou  art  king  ! 

"But,"  sayest  thou — (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 
To  find  thee  tripping  on  a  mere  word)  "what 


CLE  ON.  265 

Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays  ;  that  does  not  die ! 

Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 

And  yEschylus,  because  we  read  his  plays  ! " 

Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come  and  take 

Thy  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from  thy  cup, 

Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive  ? 

Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still, 

In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy 

Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 

By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen  ; 

While  every  day  my  hair  falls  more  and  more, 

My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase — 

The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 

The  consummation  coming  past  escape, 

When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy — 

When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 

Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths, 

Alive  still,  in  the  phrase  of  such  as  thou, 

I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 

The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over-much, 

Shall  sleep  in  my  urn.     It  is  so  horrible, 

I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 

Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 

Unlimited  in  capability 

For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 

— To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger  forces  us: 

That,  stung  by  straitness  of  our  life,  made  strait 

On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at  large — 

Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death, 

We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 

Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his  wings.     But  no  ! 

Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it ;  and  alas, 

He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible  ! 


266  INS  TA  NS   T 1 TRA  NNl  'S. 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
Glad  for  what  was  !     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 
To  one  called  Paulus ;  we  have  heard  his  fame 
Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 
Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us  ? 
Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  O  king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one, 
As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all  ! 
He  writeth,  doth  he  ?  well,  and  he  may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars !  certain  slaves 
Who  touched  on  this  same   isle,  preached  him   and 

Christ ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS. 

i. 
Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

ir. 
I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course — 
For,  what  was  his  force  ? 
I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 
And  persistence  of  hate  ; 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not  curse, 
As  his  lot  might  be  worse. 


INSTANS   TYRANNUS.  267 

III. 

"Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand  ! 

For  obscurity  helps  him,  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All  in  vain  !     Gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue  ; 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth  : 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

IV. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press  : 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize  ! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me,  in  person  or  pelf, 

What  he  owes  me  himself ! 

No  :  I  could  not  but  smile  through  my  chafe  : 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

— Through  minuteness,  to  wit. 


Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its  place 
At  the  thought  of  his  face  : 
The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 
The  trouble  uncouth 


268  WSTANS   TYRANNUS. 

'Tvvixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain. 

And,  "no!"  I  admonished  myself, 

"  Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen  's  in  that  ! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot, 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate  ! 

But  the  small  turns  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you, — that  is  the  thing  ! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king  ? 

Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,  't  is  well  worth  !  " 


VI. 

So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  break 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake  ; 

Over-head,  did  my  thunder  combine 

With  my  under-ground  mine  : 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 

To  enjoy  the  event. 


VII. 

When  sudden     .     .     .     how  think  ye,  the  end  ? 

Did  I  say  "without  friend  ?  " 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 


AN  EPISTLE.  269 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest  ! 

Do  you  see  ?     Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed  ! 

— So,  /  was  afraid  ! 


AN    EPISTLE 

CONTAINING    THE    STRANGE    MEDICAL    EXPERIENCE    OF 
KARSHISH,    THE    ARAB    PHYSICIAN. 

Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 

The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's  flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 

That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

— To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain, 

Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would  slip 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, — 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 

To  baffle  it  by/deftly  stopping  such  : — 

The  vagrant  wcriolar  to  his  Sage  at  home 

Sends  greeting  (health    and  knowledge,    fame    with 

peace) 
Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone — rarer  still, 
One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 
(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 
And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time. 


270  AN  EPISTLE. 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho  : 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid  ? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumors  of  a  marching  hitherward  ; 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear  ; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls  : 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy  ; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.     Thou  laughest  here ! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 
And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say  ; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of  :  there  's  a  spider  here 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back  ; 
Take  five  and  drop  them     .     .     .     but  who  knows  his 

mind, 
The  Syrian  run-a-gate  I  trust  this  to  ? 
His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 
Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 
Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 
There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 


AN  EPISTLE.  271 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all — 
Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth 
Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 
Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 
In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 
Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy  : 
Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar — 
But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay  !  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal  ? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang  ! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness — or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than't  is  worth. 
So,  pardon  if — (lest  presently  I  lose, 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight— for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth  ? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 
Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all ! 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania  :  subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 
Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me,  and  which  't  were  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing,  out-breaking,  all  at  once, 


2 72  A  A'  EPISTLE. 

Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed,— 

But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 

Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 

The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 

Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 

(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 

Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 

The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 

Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 

That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 

And  first — the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 

That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 

— That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 

By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe  : 

— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "  Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 

"Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 

Not  so  this  figment  ! — not,  that  such  a  fume, 

Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 

Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 

As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all  ! 

For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 

The  man — it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 

Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 

As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 

Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep  ! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all  ? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 


AN  EPISTLE.  273 

To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke, 
Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow, — told  the  case 
He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 
But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 
Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed :  and  yet  no  fool. 
And  that 's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 
Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 
Should  find  a  treasure, — can  he  use  the  same 
With  straitened  habitude  and  tastes  starved  small, 
And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 
The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 
That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand, 
And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust  ? 
Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth — 
Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 
Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times  ? 
All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 
The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one  : 
The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 
So  here — we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 
Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty — 
Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 
Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven  : 
The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 
The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 
Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 
Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 
Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 
And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds — 
'T  is  one !     Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 
Speak  of  some  trifling  fact, — he  will  gaze  rapt 
With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness, 
(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 
He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results  ; 
18 


274  AN  EPISTLE. 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  sec  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death, — why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft  ! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.      Demand 

The  reason  why — "  't  is  but  a  word,"  object — 

"  A  gesture  " — he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind  ?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know  ! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life  : 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 


AN  EPISTLE.  275 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 
And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze — 
u  It  should  be  "  baulked  by  "here  it  cannot  be." 
And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 
As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 
His  sage  that  bade  him  "  Rise  "  and  he  did  rise. 
Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 
Admonishes  :  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 
To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 
In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 
Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread  ; 
And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 
Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 
God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 
Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 
Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will- 
Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 
'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 
For  that  same  death  wThich  must  restore  his  being 
To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 
Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth  : 
He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 
So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 
He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 
(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 
Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 
The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 
Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do  : 
How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real  ground, 
His  own  conviction  ?     Ardent  as  he  is — 
Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 
"  Be  it  as  God  please  "  reassureth  him. 
I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should  : 
"How,  beast,"  said  I,  "this  stolid  carelessness 


276  AN  EPISTLE. 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once  ?  " 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds — how  ray  I  ?  flowers  of  the  field — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb  : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed  : 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happened  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners, 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure — and  I  must  hold  my  peace  ! 

Thou  wilt  object — Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits  ? 
Alas  !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused, — our  learning's  fate, — of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 


AN  EPISTLE.  277 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 

Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people — that  's  their  wont ! 

On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ?     That  's  their 

way  ! 
The  other  imputations  must  be  lies  : 
But  take  one,  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 
In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 
(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 
Is  stark  mad  ;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says  ? 
Perhaps  not :  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 
'T  is  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 
This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 
As — God  forgive  me  !  who  but  God  himself, 
Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 
That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile  ! 
— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 
Taught,    healed    the    sick,    broke    bread    at   his    own 

house, 
Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 
And  yet  was     .     .     .     what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 
And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 
In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 
Who  saith — but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith  ? 
Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 
Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark  ? 
I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 
Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 
Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange ! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth ! 


278  AN  EPISTLE. 

Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 

Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 

And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 

Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 

Had  wrought  upon  me  first.      I  met  him  thus  : 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 

Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.      Out  there  came 

A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 

Multiform,  manifold  and  menacing  : 

Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 

In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 

The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 

Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 

To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  :  he  may  lose, 

Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 

Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 

For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine  ; 

Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib  ;  dost  thou  think  ? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too— 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  ! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee  ! 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so :  it  is  strange. 


CALIBAN   UPON  SET E BOS.  279 

CALIBAN    UPON    SETEBOS ; 

OR,    NATURAL    THEOLOGY    IN    THE    ISLAND. 
"Thou  thoughtest  that  T  was  altogether  such  a  one  as  thyself." 

['Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin. 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh : 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant, 
Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  browT  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 
And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch, — 
He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web, 
(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times) 
And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 
Touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God. 
Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes — ha, 
Could  He  but  know  !  and  time  to  vex  is  now, 
When  talk  is  safer  than  in  Winter-time. 
Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep 
In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task, 
And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos  ! 
Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars  ;  the  stars  came  otherwise  ; 


28o  CALIBAN   UPON  SETEBOS. 

Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that  : 
Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 
And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same. 

Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease  : 

He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His  cold, 

Nor  cure  its  ache.     'Hath  spied  an  icy  fish 

That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock-stream  where  she  lived. 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  lukewarm  brine 

O'  the  lazy  sea,  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave ; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun) 

Flounced    back    from    bliss    she   was    not    born    to 

breathe, 
And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 
Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike  :  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 

Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 

Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech  ; 

Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam, 

That  floats  and  feeds  ;  a  certain  badger  brown, 

He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge 

eye 
By  moonlight  ;  and  the  pie  with  the  long  tongue 
That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm, 
And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 
But  will  not  eat  the  ants  ;  the  ants  themselves 
That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 
About  their  hole — He  made  all  these  and  more, 
Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite :  how  else  ? 
He  could  not,  Himself,  make  a  second  self 


CALIBAN-   UPON  SETEBOS.  2S1 

To  be  His  mate  :  as  well  have  made  Himself : 

He  would  not  make  what  he  mislikes  or  slights, 

An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains  ; 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport, 

Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a  manner,  be — 

Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 

Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 

Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too, — that  is  it. 

Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 

Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into  mash, 

Add  honeycomb  and  pods,  I  have  perceived, 

Which  bite  like  finches  when  they  bill  and  kiss, — 

Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink  up  all, 

Quick,  quick,  till  maggots  scamper  through  my  brain  ; 

Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded  thyme, 

And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 

I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay: 

Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 

Able  to  fly? — for,  there,  see,  he  hath  wings, 

And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to  admire, 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence, 

There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live, 

Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the  horns 

Of  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din, 

Saucy  through  their  veined  wings,  and  mind  me  not. 

In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 

And  he  lay  stupid-like, — why,  I  should  laugh; 

And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 

Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 

Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow  again, — 

Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might  take  or  else 

Not  take  my  fancy :  I  might  hear  his  cry, 


282  CALIBAN   (TON  SETEBOS. 

And  give  the  manikin  three  legs  for  one, 
Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like  an  egg, 
And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely  clay. 
Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the  thyme, 
Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  become  alive, 
Making  and  marring  clay  at  will  ?     So  He. 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel  :  He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea  ; 
'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twrenty- first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 
'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple  spots 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off  ; 
'Say,  This  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a  worm, 
And  two  worms  he  wrhose  nippers  end  in  red 
As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do  :  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i'  the  main, 
Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were  guessed, 
But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be  sure  ! 
Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than  Himself, 
And  envieth  that,  so  helped,  such  things  do  more 
Than  He  who  made  them  !     What  consoles  but  this  ? 
That  they,  unless  through  Him,  do  naught  at  all, 
And  must  submit :  what  other  use  in  things  ? 
'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder-joint 
That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the  scream  o'  the  jay 
When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the  feathers  blue  : 
Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate  the  jay 
Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their  foe  is  hurt  : 
Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and  boast  forsooth 
"I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty  thing, 


CALIBAN   UPON  SETEBOS.  283 

I  make  the  cry  my  maker  cannot  make 

With  his  great  round  mouth  ;  he  must  blow  through 

mine! " 
Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot  ?     So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill  at  ease  ? 
Aha,  that  is  a  question !     Ask,  for  that, 
What  knows, — the  something  over  Setebos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found  and  fought, 
Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing,  perchance. 
There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His  head, 
Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor  grief, 
Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in  some  way. 
I  joy  because  the  quails  come  ;  would  not  joy 
Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a  mind  : 
This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to,  doth. 
'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its  couch, 
But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care  that  way. 
It  may  look  up,  work  up, — the  worse  for  those 
It  works  on  !     'Careth  but  for  Setebos 
The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 
Who,  making  Himself  feared  through  what  He  does, 
Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  he  cannot  soar 
To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life  ; 
Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very  spite 
Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon  real, 
These  good  things  to  match  those,  as  hips  do  grape 
'T  is  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and  sport. 
Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his  books 
Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the  isle  : 
Vexed,  'stitched  a  book  of  broad  leaves,  arrow-shaped. 
Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodigious  words  ; 
Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a  name  ; 
Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's  robe 


284  CALIBAN   UPON  SE'EEBOS. 

The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  ocelot  ; 

And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker  than  youngling  mole, 

A  four-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower  and  couch, 

Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and  mind  his  eye, 

And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife 

'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill  crane 

He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight  disgorge  ; 

Also  a  seabeast,  lumpish,  which  he  snared, 

Blinded  the  eyes  of,  and  brought  somewhat  tame, 

And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the  drudge 

In  a  hole  o'  the  rock,  and  calls  him  Caliban  ; 

A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and  bites. 

'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way, 

Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes  :  so  He. 

His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all  things 
Which  Setebos  vexed  only  :  'holds  not  so. 
Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness  He  might  vex. 
Had  He  meant  other,  wMile  His  hand  was  in, 
Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn  could  prick. 
Or  plate  my  scalp  with  bone  against  the  snow, 
Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and  joint, 
Like  an  ore's  armor  ?     Ay, — so  spoil  His  sport ! 
He  is  the  One  now  :  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what  profits  Him. 

Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good  ;  but  why  ? 

'Gets  good  no  otherwise.     This  blinded  beast 

Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his  nose, 

But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help,  would  hate 

Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him  :  He  hath  eyes. 

Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 

Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much  craft, 

By  no  means  for  the  love  of  what  is  worked. 


CALIBAN   UPON  SETEBOS.  2S5 

'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the  world 
When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer-time, 
And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not  much, 
Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and  strength. 
'Falls  to  make  something  :  'piled  yon  pile  of  turfs, 
And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of  soft  white  chalk, 
And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 
And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 
And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  skull  a-tot, 
Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill. 
No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake  ; 
'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again  :  so  He. 

'Saith  He  is  terrible  :  watch  His  feats  in  proof ! 

One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 

He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 

Just  as  He  favors  Prosper,  who  knows  why  ? 

So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 

'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced  them  firm 

With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she-tortoises 

Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here  :    well,  one  wave, 

Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 

Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its  large  tongue, 

And  licked  the  whole  labor  flat :  so  much  for  spite. 

'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it  lies) 

Where,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the  shade  : 

Often  they  scatter  sparkles  :  there  is  force  ! 

'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied  once 

And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a  stone. 

Please  Him  and  hinder  this  ? — What  Prosper  does  ? 

Aha,  if  he  would  tell  me  how  !     Not  He  ! 

There  is  the  sport  :  discover  how  or  die  ! 

All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o'  the  isle 

Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up  trees ; 


286  CALIBAN   C'POX  SET  KB  OS. 

Those  at  His  mercy, — why,  they  please  Him  most 
When     .     .     .     when     .     .     .     well,    never    try   the 

same  way  twice  ! 
Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may  grow  wroth. 
You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play  Him  off, 
Sure  of  the  issue.     'Doth  the  like  himself: 
'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 
But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my  thumb, 
And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  defence  : 
'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 
Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 
For  fright  at  my  approach  :  the  two  ways  please. 
But  what  would  move  my  choler  more  than  this, 
That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life" 
To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days  to  come, 
Saying  forsooth  in  the  inmost  of  its  heart, 
"  Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 
And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute, 
So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always." — Ay  ? 
'Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what "  must"  means  ! 
'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord  ?     So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus, 

And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 

So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  His  strength  :  no  change, 

If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new  world 

To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watching  this, — 

If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 

Some  strange  day, — or,  suppose,  grow  into  it 

As  grubs  grow  butterflies  :  else,  here  are  we, 

And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at  all. 

'Believeth  with  the  life,  the  pain  shall  stop. 
His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS.  287 

He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted  friends  : 
Idly  !     He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our  life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through  pain, 
Saving  last  pain  for  worst, — with  which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.     'Sees,  himself, 
Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and  pink, 
Bask  on  the  pompion-bell  above  :  kills  both. 
'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  their  ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives  : 
Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  misconceive,  suppose 
This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 
And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him  ; 
Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark  nights, 
Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to  laugh, 
And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed  as  now  : 
Outside,  'groans,  curses.      If  He  caught  me  here, 
O'erheard  this   speech,  and  asked  "What  chucklest 

at?" 
'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 
Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the  best, 
Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 
Or  push  my  tame  beast  for  the  ore  to  taste: 
While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 
And  sung  it,  "  What  I  hate,  be  consecrate 
To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 
For  Thee  ;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor  me  ?  " 
Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes  mend, 
Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 
That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 
And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 
Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 


288  SA  UL. 

[What,  what  ?     A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once  ! 

Crickets  stop  hissing  ;  not  a  bird — or,  yes, 

There  scuds  His  raven  that  hath  told  Him  all ! 

It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling  !     Ha !     The  wind 

Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house  o'  the  move, 

And  fast  invading  fires  begin  !     White  blaze — 

A  tree's  head  snaps  —  and  there,  there,  there,  there 

there, 
His  thunder  follows  !     Fool  to  gibe  at  Him  ! 
Lo  !     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos  ! 
'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his  upper  lip, 
Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat  this  month 
One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may  'scape  !] 


SAUL. 

Said  Abner,  "  At  last  thou  art  come  !     Ere  I  tell,  ere 

thou  speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well !"   Then  I  wished  it,  and 

did  kiss  his  cheek. 
And  he,  "  Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for  thy  coun- 
tenance sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we  ;  nor  until  from 

his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth 

yet, 
Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water 

be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of 

three  days, 
Nut  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer 

nor  of  praise, 


SA  UL.  289 

To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their 

strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back 

upon  life. 

n. 

"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved!     God's  child 

with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living 

and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no 

wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert !  " 

in. 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 
Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my 

feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.    The  tent  was 

unlooped; 
I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I 

stooped  ; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  with- 
ered and  gone, 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my 

way  on 
Tiil  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.     Then  once 

more  I  prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not 

afraid 
But  spoke,  "  Here  is  David,  thy  servant  ! "     And  no 

voice  replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness  ;  but  soon 

I  descried 
19  


290  SA  UL. 

A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — the  vast, 

the  upright 
Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion  :  and  slow  into 

sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  thro'  the  tent-roof,  showed 

Saul. 


IV. 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched 

out  wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to 

each  side  ; 
He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught 

in  his  pangs 
And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all  heavily 

hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With   the  spring-time, — so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and 

stark,  blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies  we  twine 

round  its  chords 
Lest   they  snap   'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide — 

those  sunbeams  like  swords ! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as, 

one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they 

have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses   stifle  the  water  within  the 

stream's  bed ; 


SAUL.  291 

And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  fol- 
lows star 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue  and  so 
far! 

VI. 

— Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland 

will  each  leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player  ;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets 

elate 
Till  for  boldness   they  fight  one  another  :  and  then, 

what  has  weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand 

house — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and 

half  mouse  ! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love 

and  our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family 

here. 

VII. 

Then  I   played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,    their 

wine-song,  when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and 

great  hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. — And 

then,  the  last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — "  Bear, 

bear  him  along 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets  !    Are 

balm  seeds  not  here 
To  console  us  ?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on 

the  bier. 


2Q2 


SA  UL. 


Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother  !  " — And 

then,  the  glad  chaunt 
Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens,  next, 

she  whom  we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. — And  then, 

the  great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress 

an  arch 
Naught  can  break  ;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends? 

— Then,  the  chorus  intoned 
As  the  levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 
But   I   stopped  here  :  for  here  in  the  darkness   Saul 

groaned. 

VIII. 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and 
listened  apart ; 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered  :  and 
sparkles  'gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once  with 
a  start 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous 
at  heart. 

So  the  head  :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung 
there  erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  un- 
checked, 

As  I  sang, — 

IX. 

"  Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor  !     No 
spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  un- 
braced. 


SA  UL. 


293 


Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping  from  rock  up 

to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of   boughs   from   the  fir-tree,  the 

cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge   in  a  pool's   living  water,  the  hunt  of 

the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his 

lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold 

dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full 

draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bul- 
rushes tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and 

well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere   living !  how  fit  to 

employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for  ever  in 

joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose 

sword  thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glo- 
rious reward  ? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up 

as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her 

faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  *  Let  one 

more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  thro'  a  lifetime,  and 

all  was  for  best ! ' 
Then  they  sung  thro'  their  tears  in  strong  triumph, 

not  much,  but  the  rest. 


294 


SA  UL. 


And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  work- 
ing whence  grew 
Such    result    as,    from    seething   grape-bundles,    the 

spirit  strained  true  : 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood  of 

wonder  and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the 

eye's  scope, — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch  ;  a  people   is 

thine  ; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one 

head  combine  ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and 

rage  (like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets  the 

gold  go) 
High   ambition   and   deeds   which   surpass   it,   fame 

crowning  them, — all 
Brought   to   blaze  on  the    head   of   one    creature — 

King  Saul  !  " 

x. 

And  lo,   with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart,    hand, 

harp  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding 

rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as  when, 

dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through 

its  array, 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "  Saul  !  "  cried 

I,  and  stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.    Then  Saul. 

who  hung  propped 


SA  UL.  295 

By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck 

by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes 

right  to  the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that 

held  (he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a 

broad  bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — leaves 

grasp  of  the  sheet  ? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down 

to  his  feet, 
And   there  fronts   you,   stark,   black,    but    alive    yet, 

your  mountain  of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages 

untold — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  fur- 
row and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt   you  and  the  tempest— all 

hail,  there  they  are  ! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold 

the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the 

green  on  his  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer.      One  long 

shudder  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was 

stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before   me,  released 

and  aware. 
What   was   gone,   what  remained  ?      All  to  traverse 

'twixt  hope  and  despair. 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come  :  so  he  waited.    Awhile 

his  right  hand 


296  SA  UL. 

Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes,  left  too  vacant,  forth- 
with to  remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter  :  't  was 

Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was 

hurt  any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from 

the  shore, 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a  sun's  slow 

decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and 

entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely  :  so, 

arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 


XI. 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 
(For,  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me)  what  next 

should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him  ? — Song 

filled  to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it 

yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the   strength  and  the  beauty  :  be- 
yond, on  what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten 

the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the 

cup  they  put  by  ? 
He  saith,  "  It  is  good  ;"  still  he  drinks  not  :  he  lets 

me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 


SA  UL.  297 

XTI. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round 

me  the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence — above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as 

in  sleep  ; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that 

might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the 

hill  and  the  sky. 
And  I  laughed — "  Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be 

passed  with  my  flocks, 
Let  me  people   at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains 

and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the 

show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly 

shall  know  ! 
Schemes  of  life,    its  best  rules  and  right  uses,   the 

courage  that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for." 

And  now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again  ;  I  grew  surer  ;  so,  once 

more  the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus — 

XIII. 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts 

that  spring. 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man 

and  by  brute  : 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul 

it  bears  fruit. 


298  SA  UL. 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, — how  its 

stem  trembled  first 
Till   it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the   stag's  antler  ;  then 

safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round  ;  and  thou  mindest  when 

these  too,  in  turn, 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect :  yet 

more  was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.    Our 

dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow  ?  or  care 

for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them  ? 

Not  so  !  stem  and  branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the 

palm-wine  shall  staunch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee 

such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for !  the  spirit  be 

thine  ! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still 

shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious,  the  life 

of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running  !     Each 

deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world  ;  until  e'en  as 

the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him, 

though  tempests  efface, 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must 

everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each  ray  of 

thy  will, 


SA  UL.  299 

Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over, 

shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till  they 

too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons  :  who  in  turn,  fill  the  South 

and  the  North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.    Carouse 

in  the  past ! 
But  the  license  of   age    has  its  limit  ;  thou  diest  at 

last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her 

height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and  his  beauty  for  ever 

take  flight. 
No  !     Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine  !    Look 

forth  o'er  the  years  ! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual ;  begin 

with  the  seer's  ! 
Is  Saul  dead?     In  the  depth   of  the  vale  make  his 

tomb — bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till, 

built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark   where  the  great  First   King  slumbers  : 

whose  fame  would  ye  know  ? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record 

shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe. — Such  was  Saul, 

so  he  did  ; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace 

chid, — 
For    not    half,    they  '11    affirm,    is    comprised   there  ! 

Which  fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon 

they  shall  spend 


3oo 


SA  UL. 


(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and 
record 

With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — the  states- 
man's great  word 

Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.  The 
river  's  a-wave 

With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when 
prophet-winds  rave  : 

So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and 
their  part 

In  thy  being  !  Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God 
that  thou  art !  " 

XIV. 

And  behold  while  I  sang     .     .     .     but   O  Thou  who 

didst  grant  me,  that  day, 
And,  before  it,  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy  help   to 

essay, 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, — my  shield  and 

my  sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word 

was  my  word, — 
Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human 

endeavor 
And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed 

hopeless  as  ever 
On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till,  mighty 

to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance — God's 

throne  from  man's  grave  ! 
Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my  voice  to 

my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what   marvels   last 

night  I  took  part, 


SA  UL. 


3or 


As  tliis  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with 

my  sheep  ! 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep, 
For  I  wake  in   the   gray  dewy  covert,  while   Hebron 

upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and 

Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

xv. 

I  say  then, — my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and,  ever 

more  strong, 
Made  a   proffer  of  good  to  console   him — he   slowly 

resumed 
His   old   motions  and  habitudes   kingly.     The   right 

hand  replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted 

the  swathes. 
Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that  his  coun- 
tenance bathes, 
He   wipes  off  with  the  robe  ;  and  he  girds   now  his 

loins  as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp 

set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  error  had  bent 
The   broad    brow  from   the    daily  communion  ;    and 

still,  though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same, 

God  did  choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never 

quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  still,  stayed  by 

the  pile 


102 


SAUL, 


Of  liis  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned 

there  awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the  tent- 
prop,  to  raise 
His    bent    head,    and    the    other    hung    slack — till    I 

touched  on  the  praise 
I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient 

there  ; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first 

I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast 

knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like 

oak  roots  which  please 
To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.     I  looked  up  to 

know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  :  he  spoke 

not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with 

care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow : 

thro'  my  hair 
The  large  ringers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my 

head,  with  kind  power — 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a 

flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scruti- 
nized mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  !  but  where 

was  the  sign  ? 
I  yearned — "  Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing 

a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future 

and  this  ; 


SAUL.  303 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages 

hence, 
As  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's 

heart  to  dispense  !  " 

XVI. 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.  No  harp  more— no 
song  more  !  outbroke — 

XVII. 

"  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation  :  I  saw  and 
I  spoke  ; 

I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in 
my  brain 

And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — re- 
turned him  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 

I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all 's  love,  yet 
all 's  law. 

Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.  Each 
faculty  tasked 

To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dew- 
drop  was  asked. 

Have  I  knowledge  ?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom 
laid  bare. 

Have  I  forethought  ?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the 
Infinite  Care  ! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success  ? 

I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more  and  no 
less, 

In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is 
seen  God 

In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and 
the  clod. 


3°4 


.V.  /  l  'L. 


And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever 
renew 

(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises 
it  too) 

The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all- 
complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 

Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity 
known, 

I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my 
own. 

There  's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hood- 
wink, 

I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh  as  I  think), 

Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I 
worst 

E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold,  I  could  love  if  I 
durst ! 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may 
o'ertake 

God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  :  I  abstain  for 
love's  sake. 

— What,  my  soul  ?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ?  when 
doors  great  and  small, 

Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the 
hundredth  appal? 

In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  great- 
est of  all  ? 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate 
gift, 

That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it  ?  Here 
the  parts  shift  ? 

Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  creator, — the  end,  what 
began  ? 


SA  UL.  305 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this 

man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet 

alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will, 

much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous 

dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?  to  make  such 

a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  eartli  for  insphering 

the  whole  ? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears 

attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give 

one  more,  the  best  ? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at 

the  height 
This     perfection, — succeed,     with     life's     dayspring, 

death's  minute  of  night  ? 
Interpose    at  the    difficult  minute,   snatch  Saul,  the 

mistake, 
Saul,   the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and  bid 

him  awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find 

himself  set 
Clear    and  safe  in  new  light    and  new  life, — a  new 

harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended — who  knows  ? — 

or  endure  ! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to 

make  sure  ; 
By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified 

bliss, 
20 


3o6  SA  I  L. 

And   the   next    world's   reward    and    repose,   by  the 
struggles  in  this. 

XVIII. 

I  believe  it !     'T  is  thou,  God,  that  givest,  't  is  I  who 

receive  : 
In  the  first  is   the   last,  in   thy  will   is   my   power  to 

believe. 
All 's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt 

to  my  prayer, 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to 

the  air. 
From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy 

dread  Sabaoth  : 
/will  ? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me  !     Why  am  I  not 

loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too  ?     Why  is  it  I 

dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?     What  stops 

my  despair  ? 
This  ; — 't  is  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but 

what  man  Would  do  ! 
See   the   King — I  would    help   him,   but   cannot,  the 

wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor 

to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would — know- 
ing which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak  through 

me  now  ! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love  ?     So  wouldst  thou 

— so  wilt  thou  ! 
So  shall  crown   thee  the  topmast,  ineffablest,  utter- 
most crown — 


SA  UL. 


3°7 


And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor 

down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in  !     It  is  by  no 

breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue 

with  death  ! 
As  thy  love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  be- 
loved ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall 

stand  the  most  weak. 
'T  is  the  weakness   in  strength,  that   I   cry  for  !  my 

flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead  !     I  seek  and  I  find  it.     O  Saul,  it 

shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee  ;  a  Man  like  to 

me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever :  a  Hand 

like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !  See 

the  Christ  stand!" 

XIX. 

I  know  not   too  well   how  I   found  my  way  home  in 

the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and 

to  right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the 

aware  : 
I    repressed,  I  got   through  them   as  hardly,  as  strug- 

glingly  there, 
As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news — 
Life  or  death.     The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell 

loosed  with  her  crews  : 


3o8  SA  UL. 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled 

and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  paint  of  pent  knowledge  :  but 

I  fainted  not, 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at   once   and   sup- 
ported, suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy 

behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank 

to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from 

earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender 

birth  ; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the 

hills; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath  ;  in  the  sudden 

wind-thrills  ; 
In  the   startled  wild  beasts  that  bore   oft,  each  with 

eye  sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wTonder  and  dread  ;  in  the  birds 

stiff  and  chill 
That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid 

with  awe  : 
E'en   the   serpent  that   slid   away  silent — he   felt  the 

new  law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned 

by  the  flowers  ; 
The    same  worked    in    the    heart    of   the    cedar   and 

moved  the  vine- bowers  : 
And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persist- 
ent and  low, 
With  their  obstinate,   all  but  hushed  voices — "  E'en 

so,  it  is  so!" 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  309 

RABBI    BEN    EZRA. 

1. 
Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made  : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  "  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God  :   see  all,  nor   be 

afraid ! " 

11. 
Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall ! " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars  ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends 

them  all  ! " 

in. 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate  :  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?     Frets  doubt  the  maw- 
crammed  beast  ? 


3io  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  be- 
lieve. 

VI. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge  the 
throe  ! 

VII. 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail  : 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the 
scale. 

VIII. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ? 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


IX. 


Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How  good  to  live 
and  learn  ? " 

x. 

Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  Thine  ! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too  : 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 

Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou  shalt 
do  !" 

XL 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best ! 

XII. 

Let  us  not  always  say 
"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  !  " 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  "  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh 
helps  soul ! " 


312  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

XIII. 
Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term  : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute  ;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 

XIV. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new  : 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

xv. 
Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

XVI. 

For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts, 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 

XVII. 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  313 

"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain  : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

XVIII. 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soui  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day  : 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play, 

XIX. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made  : 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.  Thou  waitedst  age  :  wait  death  nor  be  afraid  ! 

xx. 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

XXI. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace 
at  last ! 


3I4  RABBI   BEN  EZRA. 

XXII. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive  ; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,    this  thing,   and  I,  that  :   whom  shall  my  soul 
believe  ? 

XXIII. 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "  work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price  ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice  : 

XXIV. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account : 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's 
amount  : 

XXV. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped  : 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to   God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


XXVI. 


315 


Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 

"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change  ;  the  Past  gone,  seize 
to-day  !  " 

XXVII. 

Fool  !     All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall  ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure  : 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :   Potter  and  clay- 
endure. 

XXVIII. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed, 

XXIX, 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Scull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 


3i6  EPILOGUE. 

XXX. 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  a-glow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou 
with  earth's  wheel  ? 

XXXI. 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ! 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I,— to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 

Bound  dizzily, — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 

XXXII. 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work, 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 

Let  age  approve*  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the 


same 


EPILOGUE. 

First  Speaker,  as  David. 
I. 
On  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts, 

The  Dedication  Day, 
When  the  Levites  joined  the  Priests 

At  the  Altar  in  robed  array, 
Gave  signal  to  sound  and  say, — 


EPILOGUE.  317 


When  the  thousands,  rear  and  van, 

Swarming  with  one  accord, 
Became  as  a  single  man, 

(Look,  gesture,  thought  and  word) 
In  praising  and  thanking  the  Lord, — 

in. 

When  the  singers  lift  up  their  voice, 
And  the  trumpets  made  endeavor, 

Sounding,  "  In  God  rejoice  !  " 
Saying,  "  In  Him  rejoice 

Whose  mercy  endureth  for  ever  !  " 

IV. 

Then  the  Temple  filled  with  a  cloud, 

Even  the  House  of  the  Lord ; 
Porch  bent  and  pillar  bowed  : 

For  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
In  the  glory  of  His  cloud, 

Had  filled  the  House  of  the  Lord. 

Second  Speaker,  as  Renan. 

Gone  now!     All  gone  across  the  dark  so  far,' 

Sharpening  fast,  shuddering  ever,  shutting  still, 
Dwindling  into  the  distance,  dies  that  star 

Which  came,  stood,  opened  once!     We  gazed  our 
fill 
With  upturned  faces  on  as  real  a  Face 

That,  stooping  from  grave  music  and  mild  fire, 
Took  in  our  homage,  made  a  visible  place 

Through  many  a  depth  of  glory,  gyre  on  gyre, 
For  the  dim  human  tribute.     Was  this  true  ? 

Could  man  indeed  avail,  mere  praise  of  his, 


3i8  EPILOGUE. 

To  help  by  rapture  God's  own  rapture  too, 

Thrill  with  a  heart's  red  tinge  that  pure  pale  bliss  ? 
Why  did  it  end  ?     Who  failed  to  beat  the  breast, 

And  shriek,  and  throw  the  arms  protesting  wide. 
When  a  first  shadow  showed  the  star  addressed 

Itself  to  motion,  and  on  either  side 
The  rims  contracted  as  the  rays  retired  ; 

The  music,  like  a  fountain's  sickening  pulse, 
Subsided  on  itself  ;  awhile  transpired 

Some  vestige  of  a  Face  no  pangs  convulse, 
No  prayers  retard  ;  then  even  this  was  gone, 

Lost  in  the  night  at  last.     We,  lone  and  left 
Silent  through  centuries,  ever  and  anon 

Venture  to  probe  again  the  vault  bereft 
Of  all  now  save  the  lesser  lights,  a  mist 

Of  multitudinous  points,  yet  suns,  men  say — 
And  this  leaps  ruby,  this  lurks  amethyst, 

But  where  may  hide  what  came  and  loved  our  clay? 
How  shall  the  sage  detect  in  yon  expanse 

The  star  which  chose  to  stoop  and  stay  for  us  ? 
Unroll  the  records !     Hailed  ye  such  advance 

Indeed,  and  did  your  hope  evanish  thus  ? 
Watchers  of  twilight,  is  the  worst  averred  ? 

We  shall  not  look  up,  know  ourselves  are  seen, 
Speak,  and  be  sure  that  we  again  are  heard, 

Acting  or  suffering,  have  the  disk's  serene 
Reflect  our  life,  absorb  an  earthly  flame, 

Nor  doubt  that,  were  mankind  inert  and  numb, 
Its  core  had  never  crimsoned  all  the  same,' 

Nor,  missing  ours,  its  music  fallen  dumb  ? 
Oh,  dread  succession  to  a  dizzy  post, 

Sad  sway  of  sceptre  whose  mere  touch  appals, 
Ghastly  dethronement,  cursed  by  those  the  most 

On  whose  repugnant  brow  the  crown  next  falls  ! 


EPILOGUE.  319 


Third  Speaker. 


Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine, 

How  heaven's  high  with  earth's  low  should  intertwine ! 

Friends,  I  have  seen  through  your  eyes:  now  use  mine  ! 

11. 

Take  the  least  man  of  all  mankind,  as  I  ; 
Look  at  his  head  and  heart,  find  how  and  why 
He  differs  from  his  fellows  utterly  : 

in. 

Then,  like  me,  watch  when  nature  by  degrees 
Grows  alive  round  him,  as  in  Arctic  seas 
(They  said  of  old)  the  instinctive  water  flees 

IV. 

Toward  some  elected  point  of  central  rock, 
As  though,  for  its  sake  only,  roamed  the  flock 
Of  waves  about  the  waste  :  awhile  they  mock 

v. 

With  radiance  caught  for  the  occasion, — hues 
Of  blackest  hell  now,  now  such  reds  and  blues 
As  only  heaven  could  fitly  interfuse, — 

VI. 

The  mimic  monarch  of  the  whirlpool,  king 
O'  the  current  for  a  minute  :  then  they  wring 
Up  by  the  roots  and  oversweep  the  thing, 


EPILOGUE. 


VII. 


And  hasten  off,  to  play  again  elsewhere 
The  same  part,  choose  another  peak  as  bare, 
They  find  and  flatter,  feast  and  finish  there. 


VIII. 


When  you  see  what  I  tell  you, — nature  dance 

About  each  man  of  us,  retire,  advance, 

As  though  the  pageant's  end  were  to  enhance 


IX. 


His  worth,  and — once  the  life,  his  product,  gained- 
Roll  away  elsewhere,  keep  the  strife  sustained, 
And  show  thus  real,  a  thing  the  North  but  feigned, - 


x. 


When  you  acknowledge  that  one  world  could  do 
All  the  diverse  work,  old  yet  ever  new, 
Divide  us,  each  from  other,  me  from  you, — 


XI. 


Why,  where  's  the  need  of  Temple,  when  the  walls 
O'  the  world  are  that  ?     What  use  of  swells  and  falls 
From  Levites'  choir,  Priests'  cries,  and  trumpet-calls? 


XII. 


That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather  grows, 
Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 
Become  my  universe  that  feels  and  knows ! 


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